fatties- 
a* 


:    BEING   A  BRIEF  APPRECIA- 
TION OF  HIS  WORK   WITH 
,    SELEC- 

FROM   HIS    VARIOUS 
BOOKS  OR  VERSE. 


By   AMELIA    HUGHES 


JAMES  VILA  BLAKE 
AS   POET 


BEING  A  BRIEF  APPRECIATION  OF  HIS  WORK 

WITH    REPRESENTATIVE   SELECTIONS    FROM    HIS 

VARIOUS  BOOKS   OF  VERSE 


BY 

AMELIA    HUGHES 


THOS.  P.   HALPIN  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
CHICAGO,  ILL. 


COPYRIGHT  1908 

BY 
C.  A.  HUGHES 


JAMES  VILA  BLAKE  AS  POET. 

Sanity  and  breadth  of  philosophy  is  as  fundamental  to 
the  highest  plane  of  poetry  as  to  that  of  prose.  It  will 
be  found  to  be  as  fundamental  to  any  art  at  its  highest  ex- 
pression. Philosophy,  wedded  to  Life,  is  the  centrality  of 
power  which  pours  its  light  through  Life's  many-faced  re- 
flectors, the  arts.  Its  quality,  therefore,  must  determine 
largely  the  plane  of  individual  achievement  in  art.  It  is 
true  that  the  media  of  the  reflection  must  be  Art.  The 
acme  of  beauty  and  truth  is  found  where  the  purest  light  of 
Philosophy  inwrought  with  Life  flows  through  the  finest 
art  medium.  Hence  our  first  concern  with  any  artist  is 
with  the  quality  of  his  thought. 

James  Vila  Blake,  poet,  preacher,  theologian,  litterateur, 
is  a  master-mind  in  sweep  of  prophetic  vision,  in  vital  and 
forceful  grasp  of  the  large  elementals  of  thought,  and  in 
simple,  sweet,  clear  sanity  of  co-ordination  of  perceptions. 
Founding  upon  a  basis  purely  natural  and  rational  in  its 
best  sense,  he  has  become  endowed  with  a  lucid,  perfectly 
rounded  philosophy  and  poise  of  thought  which  has  nothing 
to  fear  from,  but  is  companionable  to,  the  developments  of 
scientific  law.  The  effect  of  this  philosophy  upon  his  literary 
work,  whether  in  prose  or  poetry,  is  felt  there  like  under- 


pinnings  of  granite  pillars.  In  the  ultimate  consideration  of 
Mr.  Blake  as  a  poet  a  study  of  his  full  literary  work  is 
perhaps  a  legitimate  exaction,  by  the  same  reasoning  that 
we  may  hold  Life  to  be  requisite  for  complete  interpretation 
of  a  sunset,  or  recognize  any  of  the  countless  necessary  de- 
pendencies of  interwoven  natural  phenomena.  Of  his  pub- 
lished works  a  list  is  given  below.*  To  this  must  be  added 
much  uncollected  work  in  prose  and  verse.  In  "An  Anchor 
of  the  Soul"  the  leading  tenets  of  his  religious  thought 
are  fully,  clearly  and  logically  presented.  The  "Essays" 
and  "Sermons"  show  the  quality  and  range  of  his  co-or- 
dination of  values.  "Saint  Solifer"  and  "More  than  Kin" 
are  creations  of  a  quaint  and  tender  romantic  fancy. 

As  to  note  agreement  with  universalities  imports  a  finer 
dignity  than  to  mark  even  wholly  admirable  dissonance  with 
temporalities,  in  this  critique  of  Mr.  Blake  as  a  poet  a 
purely  expository  mode  of  consideration  will  be  followed. 
Yet  to  point  the  difference  from  the  prevailing  fashion  in 
verse  may  be  helpful  to  a  swifter  comprehension  of  his 
individuality.  Mr.  Blake's  work  stands  in  strongly  marked 
contrast  to  the  literary  vogue  of  today;  (and  if  the  literary 

*Manual  Training-  in  Education,  1886. 
Essays,  1887. 
Poems,  1887. 

I^eg-ends  from  Story -I/and,  1888. 
A  Grateful  Spirit;  and  Other  Sermons,  1890. 
Happiness  from  Thoughts;  and  Other  Sermons,  1891. 
St.  Solifer,  with  Other  Worthies  and  Unworthies,  1891. 
Natural  Religion,  in  Sermons,  1892. 
More  than  Kin,  1893. 

An  Anchor  of  the  Soul:    A  study  of  the  nature  of  faith,  1894. 
Sonnets,  1898. 
Songs,  1902. 
Discoveries,  1904. 
The  Months,  1907. 


supply  and  public  taste  may  not  be  included  together  in 
the  term,  the  latter  must  answer  to  it).  Wordsworth  did 
not  differ  more  from  his  contemporaries  than  does  Mr. 
Blake  from  the  accepted  writers  of  today.  Two  palpable 
features  of  present-day  verse  may  be  characterized  as 
"lusciousness,"  and  a  lack  of  simple  responsible  sincerity. 
As  regards  the  first,  by  contrast  Mr.  Blake  appears  over- 
terse  and  clear-cut.  His  flavor  is  that  of  an  apple  as  against 
the  cloying  sweetness  of  a  persimmon.  His  difference  from 
the  vogue  is  equally  marked  as  regards  the  other  charge. 
With  a  pivot  in  a  philosophy  that  is  large,  rounded,  sane, 
ample,  his  work  is  carved  from  responsibility,  and  his  "firm 
and  cheerful  tone"  is  invariably  buoyant  and  absolutely 
sincere.  Each  least  song-burst  has  itsraison  d'etre,  and 
holds  a  responsible  relation  to  the  findings  of  his  philosophy. 
Moods  and  their  dalliance  are  notably  lacking,  vanishing 
in  the  crucible  of  a  mind  adjusted  to  large  and  happy  is- 
sues. Of  "whimpering  poets,"  et  id  omne  genus,  he  says, 
"Broods  I'd  hem  like  bats  in  rosy  fogs,  nor  seeing  nor 
seen."  v.  Sonnet,  p.  97.  It  has  been  charged  that  his  work 
is  singularly  lacking  in  a  reflection  of  the  passionate  de- 
spairs, fears,  failures,  of  a  struggling  soul.  Reading  deeply 
enough  one  may  discern  the  answer  in  the  quiet  bosom  of 
the  still  waters  of  his  tenets,  for  therein  is  seen  the  cure  of 
fear  and  despair.  Sorrow  has  its  natural  place  in  his  feeling 
and  expression,  not  as  the  fine  frenzy  of  a  mood,  but  as  the 
reflection  of  a  sanely  sympathetic  nature. 

In  considering  the  poetry  of  Mr.  Blake  analytically,  we 


may  direct  our  attention  first  to  its  substance  or  matter, 
then  to  its  form  or  manner.  It  is  work  that  is  characterized 
by  a  marked  individuality.  One  critic  has  said  of  it,  with 
partial  insight,  "Mr.  Blake  has  made  an  island  for  himself, 
and  the  result  is  something  very  strange  and  very  beautiful." 
If  such  work  mean  indeed  an  island,  it  is  at  least  one  which 
Withers,  Herbert,  Vaughn,  even  such  unlike  singers  as 
Longfellow,  Bryant,  and  Emerson,  and  all  simply-sincere 
poet-souls  would  feel  to  be  not  strange  and  unfamiliar.  But 
it  is  work  from  no  model.  In  style  Mr.  Blake  has  been 
swayed  away  by  no  one  and  he  has  copied  no  one.  Echoes 
of  other  poets  there  are  of  course, — that  is  as  inevitable  to 
any  reader  and  lover  of  poets  as  are  sound-echoes  to  hill- 
sides— and  it  is  here  we  detect  Mr.  Blake's  special  love 
for  the  older  poets.  His  own  individuality  is  shaped  by 
the  cast  of  his  thought  and  by  his  artistic  taste.  The  mold 
of  thought  is  not  of  the  past,  though  with  large  tenderness 
for  and  due  valuation  of  the  past;  it  is  not  of  the  present, 
though  with  a  sympathetic  understanding  of  the  present 
in  its  valid  thought-simplicities  in  religion,  in  politics,  in 
trade,  in  sociology ;  it  is  not  a  forecast  of  the  idealities  of 
the  future  merely,  though  it  is  indeed  strongly  prophetic 
and  consonant  with  the  future.  It  is  not  of  an  age,  but 
tents  on  the  wide  plains  under  the  constant  stars  of  time. 
Therefore  his  work  contains  few  traces  of  the  ephemeral 
in  choice  or  development  of  theme.  A  new  truth  or  an  old 
truth  may  have  equal  value  to  him,  but  for  both  the  line 
of  vision  is  always  his  own,  freshly  adjusted  and  far  re- 


8— 


moved  from  any  shade  of  triteness.  The  remarkable  scope 
and  variety  of  the  seed-thoughts  in  his  verse  is  one  of  the 
most  strongly  marked  traits  of  his  work.  In  the  150  Son- 
nets of  his  book  of  "Sonnets"  are  nearly  double  the  num- 
ber of  distinct  thoughts,  i.  e.,  separate  independent  ideas 
apart  from  mere  images  or  figures  or  fancies,  to  be  found 
in  Shakespeare's  154  Sonnets.  His  artistic  taste  is  toward 
the  tenderly  reverential,  but  logical,  clearly-cut  and  sanely 
simple  in  poetic  utterance.  The  remarkable  conciseness  of 
his  style  does  not  preclude  a  surprising  fullness  and  richness 
of  imagery,  a  richness  that  makes  no  demands  on  artificial 
aids  for  its  enhancement.  Often  a  single  verse  will  startle 
by  its  sudden  galaxy  of  lights.  His  exactions  upon  the 
thought  of  his  reader  together  with  his  concise  style  are 
opposed  to  an  "easy"  reading,  and  usually  accord  him  a 
slowly  acquired  but  steadily  augmenting  valuation.  It  may 
be  questioned  whether  his  extremely  compressed  and  com- 
pact expression  does  not  result  sometimes  in  a  certain  clarity 
of  outline  that  lacks  atmospheric  toning.  Yet  the  clear  dry 
view  is  a  legitimate  nature-effect,  and  to  a  lover  of  that  kind 
of  sight  the  blue  rondure  of  the  whole  poetic  nature  is  ever 
present.  Questions  of  "poetic  mist"  or  of  "the  seer  seeing 
further  than  he  thinks ;  the  singer  singing  more  than  he 
knows,"*  etc.,  etc.,  have  their  delusions  and  their  snares 
for  poet  and  poet-lover.  The  unresolved,  lost-in-a-fog  type 
of  poetry  has  no  more  place  with  Mr.  Blake  than  has  the 
"luscious,"  or  the  merely  ornate. 
*See  Skipsey's  "  Poems  of  William  Blake." 


-9 


A  criticism  in  detail  of  the  form  in  Mr.  Blake's  poetry 
is  not  in  the  province  of  this  article,  the  aim  of  which  is  to 
be,  if  happily  it  may,  merely  a  guide  or  aid  to  the  swifter 
perception  of  the  leading  characteristics  of  his  work.  But 
it  is  difficult  to  set  limits  to  the  consideration  here.  With 
Mr.  Blake  poetic  form  has  been  a  passionate  study,  and  pon- 
dered deeply  both  in  its  principles  and  in  its  practice  by 
poets.  He  is  wont  to  say  that  in  literature  it  is  the  thought 
that  makes  anything  worthy  to  live  and  the  form  that 
makes  it  able  to  live.  Poetic  lawlessness  of  all  sorts,  from 
"free  song"  to  "barbaric  yawp,"  commands  little  respect 
from  him.  Yet  within  the  bounds  of  form  he  might  be 
termed  a  radical,  for  law  and  liberty  are  equally  dear  to 
him.  To  a  deep  reverence  for  well-founded  law  and  for 
poetic  traditions  he  adds  a  courageous  spirit  for  resource- 
ful and  careful  development.  In  verbal  choice,  in  freedom 
of  style,  and  in  constructive  genius  his  dictum  is  similar 
to  Lowell's  "be  bold,  and  again  be  bold,  but  not  too  bold." 
Balance,  proportion,  and  integrity  of  construction  have  a 
great  and  special  charm  for  him,  and  he  holds  they  are 
determined  with  certainty  by  the  nature  of  the  thought.  His 
own  range  in  form  is  through  the  Ode,  Hymn,  Lyric,  Son- 
net, Blank  verse,  Spencerian  stanza,  Ballad,  Rondel,  and 
minor  forms,  including  two  charming  bits  of  his  own  in- 
vention, the  "Cameo"  and  the  "Lectel,"  for  examples  of 
which  see  pp.  72-75  and  pp.  68-70. 

The  selections  taken  as  a  whole  will  be  found  to  be  an 
excellent  comment  on  his  wide  variety  of  stanzaic  form. 


10- 


As  a  prosodist  Mr.  Blake  accepts  the  metrical  laws  as 
prophetically  indicated  by  Sidney  Lanier  in  his  " Science  of 
English  Verse."  It  is  probable  that  no  other  living  poet 
is  so  well  qualified  to  take  up  the  exposition  of  those  laws 
where  Lanier  left  it.  It  may  be  well  to  state  here  that  Mr. 
Blake  holds  that  the  figuration  of  the  typical  measure  of  the 
verse  is  limited  only  by  the  possibilities  of  the  reading  voice, 
and  that  unskillful  reading  does  not  disqualify  a  verse  that 
can  be  read  smoothly  in  accordance  with  the  metrical  in- 
tention. His  book  of  "Songs"  contains  illuminating  notes 
on  this  subject. 

In  both  style  and  diction  his  work  has  been  likened  va- 
riously and  vaguely  to  the  Elizabethan  writers,  to  Herbert, 
More,  Cowley.  In  point  of  fact  he  resembles  them  in 
nothing  save  a  direct  sincerity  of  purpose  and  in  a  love 
for  pure  and  noble  English  word-forms  too  rarely  found  in 
current  writing.  Attention  is  asked  to  the  quality,  range 
and  flexibility  of  the  splendid  diction  of  the  Sonnets.  His 
melody  of  verse  is  intrinsic.  To  a  fine  and  careful  ear  for 
"sweet  vocables,  fine-voiced  harmonies"  he  adds  a  just  taste 
for  the  relativity  of  thought  and  song  values.  He  says 
that  a  rhythm  or  theme  of  melody  may  precede  in  time  and 
take  unto  itself  a  mate  in  thought,  but  he  insists  that  the 
mating  thought  be  an  adequate  one.  If  he  admits  as 
legitimate  such  verbal  melody  unrelated  to  the  thought  as 
is  found  in  Swinburne,  at  least  he  does  not  practice  it.  In 
his  lyrics  especially  the  harmonious  adaptation  of  sound  and 
movement  to  the  sense  should  be  noted.  A  line  by  line  study 


—11 


reveals  his  quick  sensibility  to  the  niceties  of  consonantal 
and  vowel  agreements.  An  instance  is  seen  in  his  dis- 
countenance of  an  assimilating  vowel  sound  between  the 
different  rhyme-sets  of  the  Sonnet ;  e,  g.  "e"  and  "6"  rhymes 
are  preferred  to  "e"  and  "i"  rhymes,  "a"  and  "i"  to  "a" 
and  "e,"  etc.  He  holds  that  in  the  English  Sonnet  a 
marked  contrast  between  the  rhyme-sets  of  the  three 
quatrains  gives  a  strength  and  beauty  of  sound-color.  Im- 
perfect rhymes,  commended  by  Mrs.  Browning,  utterly  con- 
demned by  Lanier,  abounding  in  Pope,  and  frequent  in  most 
of  the  poets,  seldom,  practically  never,  are  found  in  Mr. 
Blake's  verse.  Especially  does  he  bar  imperfections  in 
rhyme-consonantals.  Never,  for  example,  does  he  rhyme 
s  with  2  as  in  this  and  his,  a  usage  very  common  in  the 
poets.  Of  identical  rhyme,  for  which  he  has  a  fondness, 
he  makes  facile  and  not  infrequent  use.  A  sensitive  ear 
alert  for  line  coloring  leads  him  to  an  extremity  of  structural 
care.  Yet,  withal,  Mr.  Blake  is  no  purist,  and  to  the  much 
suffering  "exigencies  of  verse"  he  admits  a  duly  restricted 
place. 

The  marked  control  of  phrase  and  of  general  structure 
to  be  found  in  his  poems  may  be  pointed  best  by  a  few 
examples.  In  the  English  Sonnet,  p.  88,  note  the  corres- 
pondence in  phrasing  of  the  three  quatrains.  In  the  Italian 
Sonnet,  p.  42,  note  the  uniformity  of  the  advancing  phras- 
ing of  the  two  quatrains.  In  the  Song,  p.  57,  note  how 
"Light"  in  each  alternate  line  retreats  a  step  toward  final 
complete  disappearance.  The  structural  control  shown  in 


12— 


these  examples  might  be  called  extreme,  yet  they  have  no 
unpleasantly  obtrusive  effect  and  do  reveal  themselves  in 
fact  only  to  study.  Examples  of  various  other  kinds  of 
structural  effect  might  be  given,  such  as  the  contrast  of 
force  and  smoothness  gained  by  the  alternating  lines  of  the 
third  quatrain  of  the  English  Sonnet,  p.  37,  and  the  gen- 
eral effect  of  the  run-over  lines  of  the  Miltonic  form  as  ap- 
plied to  the  English  Sonnet,  p.  40;  but  such  a  citation  is 
very  partial  at  best,  and  only  a  careful  study  of  Mr.  Blake's 
complete  verse  can  lead  to  any  adequate  estimate  of  his 
power  and  practice  of  internal  structural  control  in  verse. 

The  advance  in  poetic  art  from  the  "Poems"  to  the  "Son- 
nets" and  later  work  is  very  marked.  The  earlier  work  has 
the  Spring's  expectancy  of  the  tilled  fields,  and  always  is 
noble  in  thought  and  pure  in  style,  but  the  later  gain  in 
richness  of  diction,  in  poetic  amplitude,  and  in  control  of 
form  is  very  great.  "John  Atheling,"  a  noble  poem,  shows 
the  earlier  work  in  its  clarity,  its  elevation,  and  its  promise. 
The  Sonnet,  p.  91,  is  a  flower  of  perfected  genius. 

Our  ultimate  estimate  of  a  poet  must  concern  itself 
with  the  totality  of  his  song.  In  Mr.  Blake's  poetry  that 
totality  is  at  least  a  constancy  of  clear  songs  of  hope,  cheer, 
faith,  brotherhood,  love  of  man,  faith  in  men,  sung  with 
pure  ideals  of  the  poetic  art.  It  is  reflection  in  song  of  a 
vision  wherein  life  seen  clearly  and  seen  whole  comprehends 
the  all-pervasiveness  of  faith  and  piety.  A  claim  of  flaw- 
lessness  even  within  his  own  kind  or  domain  of  poetic  work 
were  short  and  poor  sight.  What  poet  of  any  marked  wide- 


-13 


ness  of  range  shows  not  lapses  from  his  accredited  taste? 
Mr.  Blake  has,  too,  the  faults  of  his  virtues.  Constant 
luminous  clarity  of  idea  is  an  offense  to  a  lover  of  the  humid 
or  mystical,  continued  simplicity  becomes  a  sufferance  to  a 
taste  craving  profuse  ornament,  conciseness  carves  a  certain 
severity  of  grace;  but  nobility  of  thought,  force,  range, 
dignity,  tenderness,  originality,  no  student  of  Mr.  Blake's 
poetry  will  deny. 

For  touches  of  his  unique  and  tender  humor  read  the 
Sonnets,  p.  90,  p.  91,  p.  97.  For  glimpses  of  his  quiet 
tenderness  read  the  Sonnets,  p.  41,  p.  89,  and  the  Songs, 
p.  46,  p.  64. 

What  the  place  and  rank  of  James  Vila  Blake  is  in  poetic 
literature  may  be  a  matter  of  greater  or  less  interest  to 
classifiers;  but  there  is  a  more  vital  issue.  For  those  who 
hold  that  poetry,  "this  heart-ravishing  knowledge  "  as  Philip 
Sidney  calls  it,  is  a  responsible  reporter  of  life  and  truth, 
coming  "that  ye  may  have  life,  and  have  it  more  abundant- 
ly," Mr.  Blake's  work  must  have  an  appeal  direct,  deep, 
lasting;  and  this,  crowned  or  uncrowned  by  fame,  is  of  the 
essence  of  immortality. 

It  is  but  fair  to  state  that  Mr.  Blake  has  had  no  part  in 
the  issuance  of  this  pamphlet  of  Selections  from  his  verse 
save  that  with  difficulty  his  consent  was  gained  not  to  dis- 
countenance its  friendly  purpose.  The  foregoing  letter  of 
comment  will  reach  his  eye  first  from  the  printed  page,  and 
it  is  hoped  that  the  sincerity  of  its  intent  may  retrieve  for 
him  any  gaucheries  of  an  inhabile  and  unaided  pen.  Having 


14- 


enjoyed  a  close  literary  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Blake  for 
some  twelve  years,  with  exceptional  opportunities  for  a 
careful  study  of  his  work,  I  have  now  undertaken  to  ask 
this  special  consideration  of  his  work,  being  impelled  there- 
to by  the  knowledge  that  from  its  marked  individuality  Mr. 
Blake's  work  must  obtain  its  recognition  in  a  place  apart 
from  the  markets  of  current  verse.  If  in  my  manner  of 
presentation  of  Mr.  Blake's  verse  I  have  failed  to  touch  the 
springs  of  interest  I  ask  that  his  work  receive  its  full  in- 
dependence of  consideration  apart  from  that  failure.  Deem- 
ing an  ample  and  illustrative  selection  of  the  poems  the  best 
possible  comment  on  the  range  and  quality  of  Mr.  Blake's 
work,  I  have  given  main  place  to  the  cullings  from  his 
verse,  and  I  trust  my  extracts  from  his  five  books  of  poetry 
will  be  found  to  be  an  adequate  and  representative  one. 


—15 


THE    SELECTIONS 


PROEM 

0  world,  ifthou  must  ask 
Sweet  melodies  of  sound, 

1  am  not  given  the  holy  task 
To  sing  for  thee.     But  round 

Thou  turnest  silently 
To  make  the  nights  and  days, 
Inlaid  -with  starry  praise. 
And  round  thou  goest  silently 

To  roll  along 

The  seasons'*  song. 
What  if  my  verse  as  silently 

Its  way  may  go, 

Commingling  with  thy  meaning,  blent 
With  nights  and  days  and  seasons!  O, 
So  thus  my  song  and  earth  agree, — 

/  am  content. 


— From  "Poems. 


—19 


E  POD  OS 

Awaiting  a  birth, 
For  the  light  at  hirst, 
The  seed  in  its  shell 
Is  sown  in  the  earth 
With  the  fire  of  the  dew, 
Till  it  stir,  till  it  swell, 
Till  it  break,  till  it  burst 
Into  view. 

And  song  is  pent 
In  verse,  till  blent 
With  the  heat,  with  thetears^ 
With  the  fires  and  the  fears, 
With  the  joy,  with  the  pain 
Of  a  heart,  and  lain 
In  that  sacred  earth 
Till  it  stir,  till  it  spring, 
Till  it  break,  till  it  wing 
Into  birth. 

The  song — it  will  stay, 
Though  seed-coat  of  verse 
Dissolve  and  disperse, — 
//  will  bide,  it  will  stay, 
It  will  grow  alway, 
Where  first  it  did  start,— 
In  a  heart. 

— From  "Poet 


20— 


JOHN  ATHELING 
i. 

JOHN  ATHELING — I  wager  thou  know'st  him  not, 
With  all  thy  knowledge:  little  more  know  I. 
'Twas  singing  in  the  street  that  he  was  found, 
Like  the  great  Wittenbergian,  singing,  wandering, 
Picking  up  pittances  thrown  him  from  the  win- 
dows 

Of  folk  who  oped  them  wide  to  hear,  delighted, 
The  marvellous  voice.     Yet  so  the  pittance  fed  him 
And  gave  him  strength  to  sing,  'twas  all  his  care  : 
The  song  his  life  was  ;  the  scant  food  it  purchased 
Was  but  the  fuel  of  force  to  sing  again. 
Older  he  than  the  German  lad,  no  child — 
Though  young,  a  man  5  and  a  man's  great  baritone 
His  voice  was,  noble,  grand,  glorious,  humane, — 
That  not  alone  the  idlers  in  the  houses, 
Or  the  easy  and  sheltered  busy,  threw  up  shutter 
And  sash  to  catch  the  tones,  but  in  the  streets 
Throngs  stopped,  of  busy  men  and  laborers, 
Of  all  the  grades  of  labor,  from  the  scholar, 
From  busy  merchant,  to  the  carrier  of  the  hod, 
Yea,  to  the  rag-picker,  and  round  him  close 
All  gathered,  tarrying,  forgetting,  forgotten,  fused 
In  human  nature  reduced  from  many  ores 
And  molten  to  one  ingot  by  that  voice. 


—21 


John  Atheling 

And  so  he  sang,  and  sang  to  live,  they  said  ; 
But  'twas  not  so  ;  he  sang,  but  lived  to  sing. 

It  chanced  one  day  he  passed  a  master's  door, 
Passed  singing,  and  the  master  sat  inside, 
In  the  grand  state  of  art  rapt  with  delight 
In  harmonies  that  from  his  mind  to  fingers, 
And  through  the  fingers  to  the  strings,  and  then 
Through  trembling  strings,  escaped  to  the  atmos- 
phere, 

Till,  in  the  air  fallen  and  folded,  they  swept 
Again  into  another  brain  entranced, 
Like  his  from  whom  they  sprang,  with  hely  pleas- 
ure. 

Athwart  this  harmony  burst  the  young  man's  song, 
And  through  the  pure  delight  a  keener  joy 
Pierced  like  a  blade  of  light  the  master's  heart, 
And    through    the  rich  sweet   sounds  the  richer 

sound 

Ran  mingling,  yet  unmingled.     As  a  stream 
Of  fragrances  from  the  wild  turf  may  rise 
And  float,  still  individual,  through  the  air, 
Then  kiss  the  utmost  leaves,  and  in  them  merge, 
In  living  veins, — so  swelled,  so  rose  the  sound. 
The  master  started  from  his  instrument 
At  tones  from  heaven's  own  instrument  more  rich 
Than  aught  of  human  make,  though  these  be  rich 
With  heaven's  descended  powers,  and  straightway 

ran 


22- 


John  Atheling 

No  leap  of  the  sound  to  lose,  eager  for  all  ; 

Then  quickly,  as  joy  moves,  or,  quicker,  wonder, 

Flew  to  the  door  and  hailed  the  lad,  and  called 

And  bade  him  come,  and  quicker  still  in-drew  him 

From  marveling  crowds  and  listening  wanderers, 

And  asked  from  him  again  the  wondrous  sound 

Of  that  deep  voice,  which  in  its  depth  was  light 

And  in  its  highest  reach  majestic  depth. 

From  the  which  hour  they  never  parted,  the  twain, 

But  lived  together,  master  and  pupil  :  the  one 

A  king  of  power,  of  masterful  lore  of  art, 

And  full  of  fervent  love  ;  the  other,  a  prince, 

The  king's  own  son  by  spiritual  getting, 

Who  for  the  king-father's  love  a  filial  gave 

And  took  his  lessons  with  a  rich  affection. 

And  so  within  the  mind  as  well  as  heart, 

And  so  in  skillful  body  eke  as  well, 

The  lessons  nursed  a  still  more  glorious  music. 

Began  he  now  to  sing  as  he  had  never 

Of  singing  dreamed,  or  learned  that  any  throat 

Could  utter  such  divinity  of  sound. 

But  all  in  tone — by  arduous  exercises, 

Rich  rising  grades.     No  daisied  meads  of  tunes 

Did  he,  the  severe  moraler  in  music, 

Permit  his  precious  charge  to  tread  in  dalliance  : 

Nay,  nay,  but  stern  gymnastic  day  by  day 

And  many  hours  each  day.     And  murmured  not 

John  Atheling,  but  toiled  and  wrought  his  best 

For  double  love, — love  of  his  master's  art 

And  of  his  master:  nay,  a  triple  love, — 


-23 


John  Atheling 

For  precious  to  him  were  his  glorious  tones 
Out-pouring,  daily  more  engendered,  strong 
From  breast  strong  growing,  and  from  tuneful 

throat 

Unfeigned  first,  then  refining,  like  fine  gold 
Refined,  till  what  seemed  perfect  grew  perfection. 
And  so,  I  say,  they  lived,  master  and  lad 
Growing  together,  and  in  daily  happiness, 
The  master  growing  in  pride  and  joyfulness, 
The  pupil  in  his  art,  and  both  in  love. 

ii. 

So  five  bright  years  together.     Then  one  day 
The    lad    came   running   (for,   though   man   full 

grown, 

Simple  he  was  at  heart,  and  boyish  too, 
As  pure  and  holy  music  keeps  its  votaries), — 
Came  running,  as  I  said,  with  glee  uncommon, 
And  cried,  "  Dear  master,  pray  thee,  let  me  sing 
What  now  is  ravishing  my  heart.     For  early 
This  morn,  full  early,  yea,  in  the  very  dawn, 
I  heard  sweet  sounds,  and  I  could  sleep  no  more: 
Sweet  sounds,  I  say,  as  in  imagination 
Woke  me  my  voice  as  thou  would'st  have  it  be  ; 
And  I  could  almost  see  the  tones,  they  thrilled 
So  in  the  air,  as  thou  wouldst  have  them  be. 
So  I  arose,  voice- waked,  voice-led,  and  thus 
By  thee  led,  master,  for  thou  hast  led  the  voice, 
And  forth  into  the  park  (thou  knowest  the  place) 
I  hastened,  following  the  sounds,  nay,  running 


24- 


John  Atheling 

To  come  up  with  the  voice  which  seemed  thy  soul, 
Thy  tutoring  spirit,  heart  and  mind  together, 
Drawing  me  on,  as  I  a  stranger  were 
To  both,  yet  knowing  both  and  owning  them. 
And  there  I  heard,  O  master,  other  sounds 
That  were  diviner  than  my  voice,  thy  dreams, 
Our  mingled  dreams  and  toils  ;  for  all  the  trees, 
The  tips  of  trees,  the  tender  nodding  reeds 
Above  the  waters,  yea,  the  breasts  of  flowers, 
And  all  the  weaving  of  the  ecstasies 
Of  soft  green  branches  tossing  in  the  morning, 
Were  vocal  with  bird-songs.     O  how  they  sang  ! 
And    how  their   pinions   whirred    and    quivered, 

clipped 

By  the  sharp  light — harmlessly,  for  still  they  flew! 
What  multitudes  !  as  there  they  came,  not  gath- 
ered 

In  any  ranks,  but  sprinkled  like  the  dew 
Wherever  a  green  place  could  hold  a  foot 
Of  a  sweet  singer,  all  pouring  forth  in  one 
Their  glorious  matins  to  the  rising  sun, 
And,  as  I  thought,  to  One  above  the  sun. 
Then  as  I  listened,  I  could  catch,  my  master, — • 
Not  in  one  strain,  not  in  one  songster's  notes, 
But  in  them  all,  and  laying  each  by  each, 
As  down  they  fluttered,  perching  in  my  sense 
From  different  heights,  yea,  up  from  coverts  low, 
Till  the  whole  air  a  habitation  seemed 
Whence  carols — gentle  guests — crowded  my  ear,— 
A  melody,  voice  pieced  by  note  and  note 


—25 


John  Atheling 

From  out  their  marvelous  throats,  with  tones  so 

high 

They  pierced  the  ether,  and  so  heavy-sweet 
They  sank  like  weight  into  my  soul; — I  pieced 
A  melody,  which  brought  me  then  to  thee, 
As  every  path  to  the  horizon  leads; 
For  thou  art  always  in  my  skies.     And  sky-like 
This  music  is  ;  dear  master,  let  me  sing  it." 
But  said  the  master,  as  one  might  chide  a  child 
For  some  brave  fault,  a  fault,  yet  still  most  precious, 
"  Nay,  nay,  my  boy,  I  tell  thee  nay  ;  'tis  naught. 
Thou  hast  been  ravished  by  the  birds'  shrill  throats. 
'Tis  well  ;  they  are  pretty  singers,  I  love  them 

well, 

Yea,  and  myself  do  hear  them  with  delight, — 
Howbeit,  old  to  suck  the  dawn's  dank  humors 
And  let  its  nipping  shrewdness  to  this  arm 
That  hath  rheumatic  murmurs  in  the  elbow, 
To  hear  the  birds  complain  of  dew's  excess 
Unto  the  princely  sun.     But  speak  not  thou 
Of  melodies  to  sing  ;  come,  tame  thy  heart  ; 
This  is  the  hour  of  task  ;  take  thou  thy  stand  ; 
Here  is  thy  exercise  ;  so,  now  begin." 

in. 

'Twas  not  long  after  this  when  came  the  youth 
One  golden  noon,  and  with  noon  in  his  cheeks, 
There  so  was  harvested  meridian  joy. 
"  Master,"  he  said,  "  O  wonderful,  and  then 
More  wonderful,  and  still  most  heavenly  strange  ! 


26- 


John  Atheling 

How  can  I  tell  thee  what  hath  happened  to  me  ? 

I  have  such  splendor  for  thee  in  my  soul, 

To  leap  like  fairies'  dances — nay,  not  so, 

But  like  religious  chant — into  thine  ear. 

'Twas  but  an  hour  ago,  that  at  high  noon 

I  stood  upon  the  bridge  that  clasps  the  river, 

Round  which,  thou  knowest,  the  great  factories 

gather 
That  pour  their  mingling  black   and   white,   like 

vestures 

Of  spiritual  nuns,  through  the  adjacent  isles 
Of  the  silent  grove.     And  it  was  noon,  just  noon, 
When  from  the  labors  of  the  morn  the  workers 
Had  stopped  for  rest  and  bodily  food.     First  sprang 
The  vocal  breath  from  one  great  whistle;  answered 
Another  then,  and  then  a  third  ;  then  others, 
Each  following  each,  and  hastening,  clustering, 
So    that   the    slow    first   tones    seemed    weaving 

rhythms 

For  figures  after,  as  on  thy  instrument 
Oft   thou    hast   shown  me  ;  and  therewith  sweet 

tune 

Flowed  forth,  note  following  note,  symmetrical, 
Till  voice  and  glorious  melody  I  heard, 
Made  of  the  whistles'  tones;  first  solemn,  slow, 
Then  gradually,  as  one  ran  on  another, 
Adding  to  the  mighty  melody  new  figures 
Of  rapid  notes  and  curving  runs  of  notes, 
Till  what  began  so  serious  and  grand 
Took  flight  for  very  joy  into  the  heavens, — 


—27 


Atheling 

But  not  less  grand  nor  serious  for  the  joy, 

The  quivering  throngs  of  notes  lifting  it  up 

Like  wings.     Master,  it  seized  me  !     Bid   me,  I 

pray  thee, 

I  pray  thee  bid  me,  for  I  can  sing  it  thee." 
This    time    the    master    frowned,   and    answered 

shortly, 

"  Dost  see  the  hour  ?     Chatter  no  more,  but  come, 
Take  thou  thy  lesson  ;  sing  this  minor  scale, 
And  see  thou  blur  not  these  clipped  intervals 
Where  I  have  marked  them  in,  strangers  to  thee. 

IV. 

So  'twas,  that  erst  at  morn  when  Atheling's  soul 
Was  ravished  with  the  bird-songs,  and  at  noon, 
When  the  strange  shrieks  of  steam  pipes  in   his 

heart 

To  music  grew,  first  did  the  master  speak 
To  him  as  to  a  child  from  a  wrong  caressed  ; 
Then  frown  on  him  and  bid  him  to  his  task. 
But  all  the  same  (for  what's  in  soul  will  out) 
He  came  one  evening,  later  by  a  month, 
Looking  like  one  in  whom  experience 
Had  bloomed  into  a  fervor,  and  thus  spake  : 
"  A  strange  thing,  master,  a  moving,  mighty  thing! 
Know  that  this  evening  I  had  wandered  early, 
Till  I  had  found  me  at  a  crossing  street 
Where    throngs  of   men  were  sweeping  by   me, 

busy 
Returning  from  more  business  ;  and  women  too, 


28- 


John  Atheling 

Yea,  even  girls  and  boys,  all  tired,  all  glaa 

To  be  let  out  into  the  air  from  labor. 

Voices,  released,  rang  loud  on  every  side  ; 

On  pavements  the  crowds  rattled,  and  thronging 

teams 

Jostled  each  other  to  the  driver's  call 
And  crack  of  whip, — sometimes  a  wrathful  scream, 
Though  soon  engulfed  in  the  great  roar  that  rose, 
Like  wind  and  wave  commingled  on  the  coast, 
Around  me.     And  the  sharp,  shrill  tread  of  feet 
On  pavement,  multitudinous,  came  up 
To  top  the  roar,  shot  with  sheen  gleams  of  voices, 
I  heard  a  distant  bell,  clanging  before, 
Now  rolling  with  the  rest,  so  that  all  seemed 
An  instant  as  if  all  were  bells,  different, 
But  ringing  with  one  thought  in  many  parts. 
Ah,  master,  it  was  grand,  this  symphony, 
Of  hurrying  men  and  rustling  dress  of  women, 
The  boy's  hallo,  the  laugh  of  girls  (what  wed- 
dings !), 

And  prattle  of  toddling  babes,  led  by  their  hands, 
The   rattling  crowds,  the  teamster's  shout,  dogs 

barking, 

The  clangor  of  great  doors  opening  and  shutting, 
All  mingled  in  one  vast  reverberation 
Which  to  my  sense  was  wondrous  harmony. 
I  lost  myself,  I  was  at  home  with  thee  ; 
I  heard  thee  playing,  I  beheld  thy  hands 
Calling  these  peals  tumultuous  of  sound 
From  out  a  vast  sublimity  of  pipes 


-29 


John  Atheling 

Towering  in  an  organ  with  ten  thousand  pedals 
Of   base  that  roared  like  flame,  and  piped  with 

notes 

Of  reeds  and  flutes  that  shot  aloft  like  sparks. 
I  tell  thee  I  could  play  that  harmony  ; 
It  hath  lived  in  me  while  I  have  run  to  thee 
And  floating  a-top  of  it  a  melody 
Which  played  the  flutes  and  reeds  unto  the  base. 
O  let  me  play  ;  for  though  my  fingers  skill  not 
To  gather  all  these  ecstasies,  like  thine, 
Yet  I  can  beacon  thine  imagination, 
Till  thou  canst  play  the  whole,  and  I  can  sing  thee 
The  splendid  melody  that  ran  above, 
Can  sing  it  perfectly  : — dear  master,  bid  me." 
Now  rose  the  man  in  wrath,  assuaged  no  longer, 
And  from  his  eye  shot  menace  ;  his  voice  trembled; 
"  Silence  ! "    he  cried,  "  What  shall  I  call    thee  ? 

Ingrate  ? 

Apostate  ?  Disobedient  ?  Or  only  foolish  ? 
What  art  thou,  what  ?     A  boy,  a  silly  boy  ! 
Ignorant  thou  art,  ay,  nothing  ;  thou  art  nothing. 
Wouldst  thou  teach  me,  or  rather  I  teach  thee  ? 
Wilt  thou  come  to  me  with  thy  silly  tunes, 
Begging  to  sing  what  I  have  set  thee  not, 
And  will  not  set,  for  I  know  well  thy  need, 
And  the  right  tasks  to  bring  thee  to  the  end  ! 
Be  done,  I  say  ;  thou  shalt  not  sing  one  tune, 
Nor  dream  of  one  to  put  it  into  sound, 
Until  I  bid  thee.     Get  thee  to  thy  task. 
In  all  thy  silly  dreams  upon  the  streets, 


30- 


Atheling 

Standing  a-gawk,  I  doubt  not,  on  a  corner, 
Amid  the  hurrying  throngs  that  stared  at  thee 
To  see  the  silly  flush  burn  in  thy  face, 
I  warrant  me  thou  thought'st  not  of  thy  lesson 
And  of  the  exercise  awaiting  thee. 
Stand  to  it  now,  and  do  thy  task,  I  say." 
Then,  the  while  Atheling  obeyed  and  sang 
With  sweet  implicitness  of  faith  obediently, 
And  the  voice  august  that  grander  grew  each  day, 
And  more  a  mountain  like,  rooted  past  depth 
In  the  central  earth  and  towering  to  the  skies, 
Clad  in  all  colors,  in  all  lights  and  shadows, 
From  snowy  white  through  glints  of  green  and 

brown 

Down  to  the  mountain's  foot  that  stood  on  night, 
So  deep  the  valley  of  its  rest, — swelled  like  a  tide 
That  would  overflow  the  horizon,  ran  the  master 
Away,  and  by  himself  fell  on  his  knees, 
And  wept  with  joy,  and  prayed  thanksgivingly, 
Even  for  the  very  things  that  he  had  chided, 
And  gave  God  thanks  for  his  great  pupil's  gifts. 

v. 

At  last  'twas  ended ;  thus  the  master  spoke  : 

"  My  lad,  my  son,  my  more  than  son,  go  now, 

I  bid  thee,  for  I  have  done  all  I  can. 

Thou  hast  done  well,  toiled  manfully,  and  now 

I  send  thee  hence,  though  'tis  as  if  my  heart 

I  took  from  out  my  breast  and  sent  away. 

But  listen  :  since  first  I  took  thee  from  the  street 


—31 


John  Atheling 

No  tune  hast  sung,  not  one,  but  only  tasks, 
To  work  like  grim  smiths  at  the  splendid  metal 
Of  thy  grand  voice,  and  hammer  it  to  shape. 
Now  thou  shalt  go  to  foreign  land,  my  son, 
The  home  of  song  itself,  where  thou  shalt  bathe 
In  melodies,  as  the  East  bathes  in  the  Ocean 
When  in  the  West  the  far  beholder  sees 
Dawn  lift  his  head  from  the  horizon's  pillow. 
Yes,  thou  shalt  feed  on  music,  for  thou  has  wrought 

it; 

And   great  heaven-cleaving  songs  shall  lift  thee, 

teaching 

Thy  voice  to  fly  as  wings  on  either  side 
To  bear  thee  to  God's  grace.     And  thou  shalt  find 
There  masters  to  thy  mind,  who  shall  reveal  thee 
These  songs  magnificent,  and  pour  around  thee 
Such  streams,  yea,  rivers,  oceans,  yea,  of  tune 
As  never  birds  had  done,  nor  noon-tide  pipes 
Nor  all  the  city's  jar  had  stirred  in  thee. 
This  shall  thy  masters  do  ;  and  now  I  give  thee 
To  them  for  love  of  thee,  and  of  thy  voice, 
Which   is  heaven's  gift  to   thee,   and   the   world 

through  thee. 

But  when  by  them  thou  art  to  glory  led, 
I  charge  thee,  forget  not  me,  but  bend  thy  love 
In  memory  over  me,  a  richer  crown 
Even  than  these  gray  hairs.     Farewell,  my  son." 
So  went  John  Atheling,  mournfully,  yet  glad, 
Though  very  glad,  yet  mournfully,  to  leave 
His  masterful,  kind-stern  and  stern-kind  teacher 


32— 


John  Atheling 

Who  him  had  taken  for  love  and  taught  for  love, 
And  bound  for  love  to  stern  tasks  day  by  day, 
For  love  of  him,  of  music,  and  of  God, — 
All  one  to  him,  for  God  lives  in  his  gifts. 
So  went  the  youth,  and  on  the  high  sea  soon 
Beneath  his  bounding  heart  the  ship  was  bound- 
ing 

On  crests  of  waves  that  to  him  singing  seemed 
And  saying  severally,  "  Speed  on,  speed  on  ! 
We  are  the  figures  of  the  melodies 
Which  thou  art  hastening  to,  and  thou  shalt  meet 
Us  there  again,  and  in  the  rising  tones, 
The  rising,  tossing  tones  of  jubilant  tunes, 
Or  the  great  roll  of  solemn  hymns  of  praise, 
Thou  shalt  again  float  on  us  on  a  sea." 
So  sped  the  days,  with  ecstasies  of  sound, 
With   dreams  of  songs,   with   the   sweet   plashes 

breaking 

Upon  his  ear  of  melodies  far  off, 
As  when  a  tide  just  setting  toward  the  flood 
First  ripples  gently  on  the  farthest  reef. 
So  sped  the  days  ;  until  the  clouds  grew  black, 
And  the  wind  roared,  and  then  drew  breath,  drew 

breath 

And  louder  roared,  with  dreadful  clamor,  tearing 
Down  through  mute  striving  clouds.     The  waters 

rose 

To  meet  the  roar  of  the  wind,  and  joined  in  fury 
And  larum  of  ungovernable  tempest. 
What  wind  and  waters  lacked  the  thunders  forged, 


-33 


Atheling 

And  where  the  clouds  were  rent,  the  lightnings 

laced  them 

In  deeper  seams  of  blackness.    Under  the  vessel 
Raged  one  storm  and  above  another  whirled  ; 
Between  them  rolling  it  lay,  crushed  and  ground, 
Out-bruising  the  aroma  of  hearts,  cries,  prayers, 
Like    maize    between    the   mill    stones.     It  was 

doomed. 
It  could  not  float, — wrecked,  torn,   rent,  broken, 

gaping  ; 

Waters  poured  in  and  gained  on  laboring  men 
Till  they  forsook  the  work,  foreswore  it,  crouch- 
ing 

To  die.     But  this  the  singer  saw  not,  heard  not; 
Or  if  he  saw,  he  thought  not  life  was  going 
But  song  was  come.     The  elements  in  storm 
Sang  to  him  harmonies,  and  over  them 
Forth  from  his  memory  leaped  melodies 
Fitting  the  scene  terrific,  the  awful  moment. 
So  there  upon  the  prow  he  stood,  and  sang, 
While  the  wrecked  vessel  settled  inch  by  inch 
At  the  broken  stern  from  which  the  rudder,  twisted, 
Was  hurled  by  the  curling  wave  into  the  sea. 
He   stood  and   sang;   and    rose  the    great   grand 

voice 

Heaven-high  above  the  roar  of  elements, — 
So  high  and  full,  it  seemed  as  though  they  quailed, 
And  stopped  to  listen  to  the  greater  sound 
Than  they  knew  how  to  lift  to  heaven's  ear. 
He  sang  great  requiems,  and  passion-music, 


34— 


John  Atheling 

And  a  world's  hope-music,  which,  Messiah-filled, 
Broke  o'er  the  earth  as  now  the  sea  the  vessel. 
Now,  now  he  could  sing!    Now  melodies  could 

mount 
From    memory's    heart   to  voice,    from    voice   to 

heaven ; 

And  as  he  sang,  thinking  of  naught  but  singing 
And  joyfulness    that  he  was  free  to  sing 
With  none  forbiding,  neither  his  master's  frown 
Nor  conscience  stern  therewith,  the  people  trem- 
bled; 
They  heard,  they  looked,  they  looked  and   heard, 

and  then 
Fell   low    on   their    knees,   bent,    crawled,   crept, 

pressed  around  him, 

Together  clinging  close  and  pressing  closer, 
All  on  their  knees,  with  hands  clasped  and  uplifted, 
And  with  their  uplifted  hands  their  faces  lifted 
Toward  him  and  toward  the  sky,  the  singer,  and 

heaven 
Whither  flew  the  song.    He  sang,  and  hearts  were 

stilled 

Wilder  than  waters,  lifted  above  the  storm 
As  the  ship  sank  below  it:  and  at  the  highest, 
When  highest  rose  the  song,  down  from  the  pin- 
nacle 

Of  music  rushed  the  vessel  into  the  waters 
That  beat  about  its  feet,  and  so  was  gone. 

— From  "Poems." 


—35 


The  poet  discovereth  that  in  all  things  he  hath  both  cause 
and  need   of   song. 

If  joyed  I  be,  conjured  am  I  to  sing 
And  round  my  glee  a  merry  music  fling: 
If  I  be  grieved,  like  Philomel  I  sing, 
Consoling  with  sweet  plaints  my  nighted  wing: 
If  I  do  love,  what  possible  but  sing 
Memorial  madrigals  that  round  me  ring: 
If  I  do  hate  (which  God  forefend),  I  sing 
To  quell  the  clamor  where  the  discords  ding. 
At  morn,  by  noon,  at  eve,  by  night,  which  way 
I  look  or  walk  or  rest  or  run  all  day, 
Naught  can  outhaste  the  angel  bids  me  sing: 
Need  matters  naught,  song  parleys  not:  or  play, 
Or  work  or  loss  or  gain  or  flight  or  stay, 
Pursuing  raptures  drive  me  till  I  sing. 

— From  "Discoveries" 


36— 


The  poet  discovereth  the  "melodies  of  morn"  at  a  neigh- 
boring tarn,  and  observeth  with  what  glistening  beauty  water 
decorateth  the  earth. 

Awake!  Away!     Out  into  the  middle  o'  the  mere! 
Shy  Day  dips  in,  then  maiden-mannered  spyeth; 
And  Night,  swart  lover,  following  aye  in  fear, 
Now  from  her  streamy  form  and  dripping  beauties  flyeth. 
The  birds  hold  showery    matins,  hailing  the  light 
With  warbling  tribes.     From  bosky  tops  to  rushes, 
No  sleepy  bud  i'  the  mass  nor  lazy  bight 
F  the  stem  but  lacquered  is  by  misty  brushes. 
Each  trunk  or  branch  or  twig  or  leaf  or  thorn 
A  silver  sheeny  pearly  vapor  fameth; 
From  fern  or  grass  or  reed  or  rose  or  corn 
Fall  twinkling  jewels  crimson  morning  flameth. 

Who  drowseth  late  doth  waste  the  flood  of  day; 

O,  out  into  the  middle  o'  the  mere!     Awake!  Away! 

—  From  "Discoveries. 


—37 


The  poet  discovereth  again  as  never  before  "what  a  thought 
of  God  it  was  when  he  conceived  a  tree." 

O,  what  a  breathing  creature !     How  he  doth  drink 
The  wind!    With  what  a  rapture  flings  his  arms, 
And  races  on  the  air! — the  while  he  charms 
The  earth  in  which  his  foot  doth  grapple  and  sink ! 
'Tis  sure  he  looks  to  heaven,  sure  he  doth  think 
O'  the  sun,  sure  doth  mark  to  fend  alarms 
From  busy-singing  friends,  and  ward  from  harms 
Them  all  on  whom  his  flowery  eyelids  wink. 
O,  come  to  me,  strong  thing!     For  well  I  know 
I  go  but  part  to  thee,  and  thou  dost  move 
From  thy  firm  tread  to  meet  me  in  the  way : 
Come  to  me,  mighty  being !    Yet  wait,  that  so 
I  run  and  kiss  thy  foot,  as  doth  behoove, 
Under  thine  arms  to  hark  and  love  and  pray. 

— From  '•'•Discoveries" 


38 


The  poet  discovereth  that  there  is  naught  so  real,  or  of  so 
great  might,  as  the  ideal  which  he  dreameth  in  his  soul. 

I  dream :     Whate'er  doth  hap  or  seem, 
Whate'er  I  do  or  not — 'tis  one : 
I  never  did  what  I  would  fain  have  don.e; 
And  when  it  falleth  short — I  dream. 
I  love :  it  lifts  me  not  above ; 
The  heart  o'  me  is  halt ; — 'tis  vain : 
To  think  or  sing  or  pray  or  preach  I  strain, 
But  only  come  to  this — to  love. 
Hope,  sight,  deeds,  away  they  fly, 
Far  fly, — I  can  not  follow  so: 
Strive,  run,  leap,  or  launch  me  high, 
All 's  fault,— I  still  am  left  below. 

Yet  naught  doth  vanish  from  me,  only  seem: 

For  this  in  full 's  my  real,  what  I  dream. 

— from  "Discoveries." 


—39 


The  poet  discovereth  that  he  is  not  to  be  pardoned  if  he 
liveth  not  evermore  with  great  company. 

Up!  where  the  majesties   go,   where  thoughts  assemble 
Ermined  in  honor  o'  the  levy,  where  's  glorious  stately 
Presence  of  gentle  nobility,  and  heart  a-tremble 
Feeling  the  weight  o'  the  world;  where  richly  and  greatly 
Shine  souls  devout  i'  the  love  that  ne'er  will  brook 
A  bourne  to  love,  but  from  religious  height 
Surveys  the  world,  nor  ever  yet  forsook 
A  nobly  needy  cause  fallen  in  fight, 
Down,  and  scornfully  trampled;  where  mighty  mortals 
Pitch  a  heroical  siege,  till  the  eastward  brilliance 
Forces  the  gate  o'  the  darkness,  and  wicked  portals, 
Beaded  with  the  dank  o'  the  night,  burst  at  the  radiance. 

O,  up !  where  these  glories  be  and  heaven  rings ! 

Up  to  them  and  live  with  them — leave  small  things. 

— From  "Discoveries." 


4O— 


The  poet,  walking  in  the  city  by  night,  discovereth  a  child 
sleeping  in  a  basket-cradle  on  the  curb  of  a  common  ill-pur- 
lieued  street;  and  he  discovereth  how  "evil-entreated"  the  child 
is. 

O,  thou  'rt  out  of  place,  thou  'rt  out  of  place, 
Sweet  cherub,  and  thy  "honey-heavy"  eyes 
With  "slumber's  dew"  seem  to  refuse  the  skies 
That  lower  and  reek  on  thine  abused  face. 
Where  smut  and  smoke  begrime  the  firm  space 
O'  the  most  true  heavens,  and  rank  vapors  rise 
From  stews  and  shambles  and  foul  human  sties, 
Is  't  room  for  thy  most  pure  and  slumberous  grace  ? 
Thou  shouldst  be  sleeping  in  sweet  country  air, 
Beneath  skies  unconfused,  white  daisies  round  thee, 
Birds  from  low  willows  peeping  at  thy  fair, 
Vicing  with  gales  to  make  dream-music  sound  thee ; 
And  chanting  brooks  thy  sleeping  sigh  should  bear, 
To  tell  pursuing  angels  they  have  found  thee. 

— From  "Discoveries." 


-41 


The  poet  discovereth  once  again,  and  passionately,  the  power 
and  dignity  of  continuing  to  wish  ardently  the  thing  no  longer 
to  be  hoped,  forasmuch  as  to  wish  grandly  is  to  live  grandly, 
and  little  it  matters  what  one  obtaineth. 

I  think  I  'd  give  my  hand  to  have  this  thing, 
Ay,  and  the  one  lop  off  his  fellow  if  't  could  buy 
This  prize :  or  bid  them  pluck  out  my  right  eye, 
Grub  out  my  ears,  or  crack  them  till  they  ring 
With  stale  unmeaning  noise;  or  let  them  bring 
The  roots  of  my  tongue  to  the  stringy  shambles,  or  try 
Unmortal  cuts  around  my  heart  how  nigh, — 
If  so  I  could  attain  this  longed  for  thing. 
Well — and  I  cannot  get  it,  'tis  denied  me, 
And  ambling  Fortune  spites  me  with  her  jeers; 
Yet  is  she  but  befooled  if  she  deride  me, 
She  weareth  motley  by  her  idle  leers : 
The  best  in  things  unhad  God  doth  provide  me, 
To  wit,  th'  unhoped  great  wish  unwaned  with  years. 

— From  "Discoveries," 


42— 


The  poet  discovereth,  by  reverence  of  his  Comrade,  that  the 
main  joy  is  to  behold  that  good  things  are  on  the  earth. 

Now  have  I  the  main  thing,  and  can  be  glad ! 
Till  I  beheld  thee  love,  thy  pity  fall, 
I  knew  not  such  things  were  on  earth  withal : 
That  is  the  main, — henceforth  I  shall  be  glad. 
What  matter  that  by  me  such  are  not  had  ? 
Main  is,  earth  hath  them,  doth  them  large  install; 
And  I  can  wait — "naught 's  long  that  ends  at  all :" 
Small  matter  what  by  me  forsooth  is  had. 
O,  rich — so  preach  I  back  thy  sweet  tuition — 
Am  I,  or  any  one,  when  what  we  miss 
We  thank  for  its  abundance  in  the  earth: 
And  he  is  wealthy  with  a  star's  condition 
Who  happily  the  world  doth  lightsome  kiss, 
And  love  it,  though  it  give  not  back  his  worth. 

— From  "Discoveries." 


-43 


The  poet  discovereth  that  "man  doth  not  yield  himself  to 
the  angels,  nor  unto  death  utterly,  save  only  through  the  weak- 
ness of  his  feeble"  song. 

My  earthly  end  can  not  be  far,  a  bare 
Seventh,  perhaps,  of  the  dear  years  now  run, 
Or  if  by  reason  of  strength  still  more,  a  spare 
Three  score  and  ten,  I  think,  will  see  me  done. 
What  then?     I'll  swifter  sing-,  as  shrewd  as  child 
That  eats  his  supper  fast  to  eat  the  more, 
Against  his  comely  nurse,  howbeit  mild, 
Doth  timely  snatch  him  to  his  sleeping  door. 
Methinks  it  were  full  rich,  when  I  must  wend, 
A  song  to  be  a-making  as  I  go, 
And  fall  asleep  here  with  th'  unfinished  end, 
To  wake  there  still  composing  it  a-glow. 

Dear  Song  's  a  friend  to  die  with  or  to  live, 

That  joy  in  either  and  for  aye  doth  give. 

— From  "Discoveries. ' ' 


44- 


The  poet  discovereth   anew  the  text,   "Enter  thou  into  the 
joy  of  thy  Lord." 

O,  what  a  streaming  glory  of  the  earth, 
What  freshet,  this  exuberance  of  joy! 
Tis  torrents,  and  doth  every  thing  destroy 
That  can  be  swept  away  and  is  no  worth. 
Bliss  hath  no  question  of  its  place  or  birth, 
Nor  chooseth, — 'tis  at  home  with  girl  or  boy, 
With  women,  nor  with  doughty  men  is  coy; 
Free  of  all  presences  this  orient  mirth. 
Hold!    Hark!    The  glorious  battle  of  bliss 
That  tops  the  musical  frolic — how  it  rang! 
Soft!    Hush!    Th'  imperial  jubilant  kiss 
O'  the  love-discoursing  zephyr — how  it  sang ! 
Go  to !    Go  to !    The  earth  makes  full  of  this, 
Since  the  orb  trembled  and  the  first  morning  sprang. 

— From  "Discoveries." 


—45 


Ah  yes !  come  back,  dear  one,  come  back, 

Come  back  to  me ! 
Thou  'rt  gone  so  far  that  for  the  lack 

I  grieve  of  thee : 

O,  thou  dost  stay 

So  far  away, 

So  very  far  away, 

Darkened  is  day: 

And  yet — never  hast  thou  gone  from  me, 

And  canst  not. 

Ah  yes !  I  look,  dear  one,  I  look, 

I  look  for  thee, 
And  think  perhaps  in  some  dear  nook 

Thou  hid'st  from  me: 

But  no;  afar, 

And  like  a  star, 

A  disappearing  star, 

Thy  graces  are: 

And  yet — never  hast  thou  gone  from  me, 

And  canst  not. 

Ah  yes!  the  time,  dear  one,  the  time, 

The  time  is  long 
While  thou  art  far  in  other  clime; 

Fails  my  lone  song. 


46— 


Hope  hard  doth  hold, 
But  I  grow  old, 
I  grow  most  swiftly  old, 
And  life  grows  cold: 
And  yet — never  hast  thou  gone  from  me, 

And  canst  not. 

For  O !  I  wait,  dear  one,  I  wait, 

I  wait  thee  here; 
All  day,  all  night  I  watch,  till  late 

Stars  reappear: 

So  lifts  thy  light 

Above  the  night, 

But  thou  beyond  the  night 

Art  gone  from  sight: 
And  yet — never  hast  thou  gone  from  me, 

And  canst  not. 

And  O !  thy  heart,  dear  one,  thy  heart, 

Thy  heart  is  held; 
Thy  feet  must  journey,  must  depart, — 

Heart 's  not  compelled. 

Around  earth's  vast 

Thy  form  hath  passed 

Awhile;  thy  heart,  not  passed, 

In  mine  is  fast : 

For  O! — never  hast  thou  gone  from  me, 

And  canst  not. 

— From 


—47 


When  April's  changeable  sweet  face  doth  show 
An  early  peeping  light, 

I  love  full  oft 
Betimes  at  morning  from  the  house  to  go 

With  quick  delight: 
The  sun  and  flowery  thrift 
Again  within  my  twice-waked  eye  do  blow. 

And  the  dulled  ear  of  all  my  sleepy  stay 
The  livelong  night  within, 

Opens  alert 
In  woods  where  meet  the  voices  of  the  day 

In  charming  din: 
The  sweet  and  musical  art 
Of  winds  and  birds  concerting  mark  my  way. 

Then  under  eye  and  ear  the  merry  Spring 
Doth  fancy-fill  my  feet, 

And  swift  I  run 
To  follow  soft  and  brown  woods-paths  that  bring 

Me  odors  sweet: 
The  forest  rounds  an  urn 
More  redolent  than  rose- jars  of  a  king. 


48- 


Nor  eye  nor  ear  nor  foot  nor  delicate  sense 
Of  freshening  fragrancies — 

Not  these  alone 
Bedew  the  time's  sweet  wandering  expense 

With  ecstacies: 
In  arborous  valley-lane 
The  flavorous  runnels  pour  me  wine  intense. 

Sweet  sights  and  sounds  and  gusts,  and  mossy  mould 
That  flatters  idle  foot, 

Now  these  are  seasoned 
With  racy  relishes  such  as  to  hold 

In  heart  are  put: 
My  happy  love  is  opened 
To  the  sweet  things  my  senses  do  enfold. 

—From  "Songs." 


—49 


SONG 

AWAKE,  my  boy! 

Thy  cheek  hath  kissed 

Its  twin  rose,  Dawn! 

Awake  for  joy ! 

A  day  is  born, 

And  earth  is  blest ! 

For  under  tufts  of  grass  lies  the  lark's  nest, 
And  sparkle  beads  of  dew  on  the  earth's  breast, 
Far  overhead  the  white  clouds  are  sailing, 
And  on  the  hills  soft  shadows  are  trailing. 

Now  sleep,  boy  bright! 
Sweet,  goto  sleep! 
With  eider-down 
Of  dreams,  brown  Night 
Shall  weight  thee  down, 
And  fold  thee  deep. 

The  water-gate  is  shut  and  the  mill  stops; 

The  evening  star  climbs  over  the  hill  tops; 

White  fleece,  like  wool,  descends  on  the  meadow. 

And  on  the  owl's  nest  deepens  the  shadow. 

— From  "Poems." 


50— 


Up  to  the  top  o'  the  trees, 

Where  sway  the  bird  and  breeze, 

And  Song's  wild  eyes 

Look  to  the  skies : 

Up  to  the  top  o'  the  trees! 

Up  to  the  peaks  o'  the  cloud, 
Where  Echo's  suburbs  crowd 
The  lightning's  flash 
And  thunderous  crash: 
Up  to  the  peaks  o'  the  cloud! 

Nay,  I  will  walk  on  the  earth ; 

My  love  them  all  is  worth : 

In  Love  I  see 

All  of  them  be, 

And  more — I  will  walk  on  the  earth ! 

— From  ''''Songs. 


—51 


THE  FRINGED  GENTIAN. 

Now  tell  me  if  in  all  the  earth 
There  be  a  flower  more  beautiful, 

More  exquisite, 

More  praises-fit, 

More  plentiful 

In  every  lovely  grace 
That  can  endue  and  fill  its  little  space  with  worth. 

So  tender-blue  and  modest  'tis, 
So  simple  and  so  temperate, — 

No  coy  distress, 

Yet  forward  less, — 

So  sweet  frank  state 

That  never  man  can  sigh 
For  fairer  thing  when  looks  that  fringed  eye  to  his. 

It  bloometh  when  the  months  are  late, 
When  other  sweets  are  fugitive, 

Or  when  the  yellow 

Of  fields  all  mellow 

A  glow  doth  give 

That  frights  that  tender  hue 
Till  curling  fringe  conceals  the  sweet-eyed  blue  sedate. 


52— 


How  dear  the  angled  goblet  seems 
Of  calix-cup's  pale  verdancy, 

What  creature-look 

Each  feature  took, 

Whose  modesty 

Met  the  all-charmed  light 
As  if  the  lashes  opened  unto  sight  from  dreams! 

I  love  the  beautiful  sweet  being: 
My  heart  is  full  and  innocent, 

All  rapturous, 

Impetuous 

And  opulent, 

When  I  make  trembling-bold 
To  gather  that  dear  soul  for  closer  hold  and  seeing. 

— From  "Songs. 


—53 


In  the  morning  let  me  face  the  east! 

There  sits  the  light: 

All  morn,  mid-morn,  noon,  after-day,  forsooth, 

Are  in  that  dawn :    Ay,  let  me  face  my  youth, 

Where  birds  wake  up  and  bees  and  blossoms  feast 

On  honeys  bright. 

In  the  evening  let  me  face  the  west! 

There  sits  the  light : 

Eve,  mid-night,  moon,  stars,  and  new  days,  engage 

In  that  red  sky:     Ay,  let  me  face  my  age, 

Where  shades  tent  nightingales ;  and  for  the  rest, 

The  sky  is  bright. 

— From  "Songs." 


54- 


Life  seemeth  all  one  song : 
If  joyed,  'tis  song; 
If  sad,  still  it  doth  belong 
To  the  one  calendar  of  song. 

Life  seemeth  all  one  time: 
If  old,  much  time ; 
If  young,  'tis  but  at  the  prime 
O'  the  one  eternity  of  time. 

Life  seemeth  all  one  love : 

If  thronged,  full  love; 

If  lone,  still  it  hath  above 

The  solitude  heart's  own  sweet  love. 

— From  "Songs. 


-55 


There  be  two  ranges  of  strange  hills, 
One  is  the  breeding  of  thy  youth, 
And  one  of  mine;  and  from  their  rills 
This  river  where  we  plight  our  truth. 

I  ken  my  hills,  thou  markest  thine, 
But  neither  doth  the  other's  know; 
And  now  conjoined  in  river's  shine, 
We  can  not  tell  to  what  they  flow. 

The  hills  are  sad  that  were  unshared, 
The  unlearned  ocean  shall  be  known : 
The  sorrow  can  not  be  repaired, 
But  now  and  on  is  love's,  my  own. 

— From  "Songs.' 


56— 


The  Light,  that  was  full  waked  at  merry  morn, 
Had  climbed  up  eager  to  the  ridge  of  day; 
There  Love  met  Light,  whereat  surprised  each, 
They  fell  to  admiration  both  straightway. 

But  soon  this  Love  and  Light,  as  often  haps 
Twixt  those  too  suddenly  that  friendly  be, 
Embraced  no  more  like  Love  and  Light,  but  set 
Themselves  full  roundly  on  to  disagree. 

Now  this  the  conflict  was  twixt  Love  and  Light, — 
To  grant  the  other  brighter  each  was  loth: 
And  sooth  by  day  they  might  dispute ;  but  Love 
Illumined  midnight  bright  enough  for  both. 

—From  "Songs." 


—57 


I  waked — 'twas  bright;  I  rose — 'twas  fair; 

I  went  forth  in  the  'bonny  air; 

The  breeze  blew  on  my  cheek,  my  brow,  my  eyes, 

And  waked  an  image  in  my  eyes. 

I  walked — how   fresh!  I  breathed — how  sweet! 
The  sun  shone  with  a  beaming  heat: 
The  heat  unbound  the  lockers  of  my  heart, 
And  warmed  an  image  in  my  heart. 

I  stand— all 's  blithe ;  I  look— all 's  blest ; 
I  said,  "Kind  Air,  tell  me  love's  rest." 
"Love's  rest"  saith  Air, — "  'tis  to  be  true,  devout, 
Reverent  in  love,  tender,  devout." 

I  stay — for  joy;  I  sing — for  praise: 

Devout  of  love  shall  be  my  days, — 

All  days; — "But  O,  warm  Light,  when  shall  love  end?" 

"Love  lives,"  said  Light,  "worlds  without  end." 

— From  "Songs." 


58- 


I  fell  in  pits  of  discontent, 

And  looked  upon  myself  with  eyes 

Of  disapproving,  sad  surprise, 

To  mark  how  ill  was  all  my  bent; 

For  I  could  gather  in  me  little  good, 

And  e'en  that  little  in  a  shadow  stood. 

I  found  me  wasteful,  indolent, 
Capricious,  fitful,  full  of  cries, 
Most  often  foolish,  never  wise, 
Morose  to  genial  merriment, 
And  darksome-empty  as  a  hollow  grot 
That  on  a  sunny  hill-side  inks  a  blot. 

So  to  myself  malevolent, 

My  poor  best  deeds  I  did  despise, 

And  nothing  in  me  did  assize 

Of  import  to  be  excellent: 

But  then  I  read  my  heart,  that  it  was  true, 

"And  loved  myself  because  myself  loved  you." 

—From  "Songs." 


-59 


As  one  self-entered  in  a  lion's  den, 
Waits  savagery, 

Not  knowing  how  or  whence  or  when, 
How  stung  from  bog  or  starved  from  fen, 
The  beasts  may  be, — 

So  I  have  trolled  me  to  this  lair  of  trade, 
This  wretchedness, 
Where  cruelty  is  scaled  and  paid, 
And  villain  coarsened  clamor  made 
A  horridness. 

I  know  not  why  this  growling  rabble  rip 
With  bitter  tooth, 

And  snarl  their  fangs  from  upper  lip, 
As  it  were  pride  to  rend  and  strip, 
And  love  no  sooth. 

This  now  I  note,  but  now  'tis  scrolled  and  fled, 

Like  witchery; 

Song  cometh — first  'tis  hush  o'ershed, 

Then  murmurs,  wherein  noise  is  dead 

By  poesy. 

Ah!    Freedom  of  my  versing!    Vision!    Bliss! 

The  wranglers  lie: 

They  think  me  kept  with  howl  and  hiss ; 

But  Song  disturbs  me  with  a  kiss — 

Away  I  fly. 

—From  "Songs." 


60- 


Thrifty  Tom  makes  a  call  far  out  o'  town, 

Where  a  little  meadow  lark  wears  a  quaint  gown, — 

O  ho  ho  ho,  ho  ho  ho,  wears  a  quaint  gown. 

Sayeth  Tom,  prayeth  Tom,  "Ah,  pretty  thing, 
Be  a  little  cosy  bird, — while  I  hark,  sing : 
Ay  ay  ay  ay,  ay  ay  ay,  while  I  hark,  sing." 

But  the  bird  cocks  her  head,  roguish  and  coy, 

"What  will  ye  be  giving  now? — tell  me  that,  boy: 

Chee  chee  chee  chee,  chee  chee  chee, — tell  me  that,  boy." 

Thrifty  Tom  saith  he  '11  give  love  very  fine : 

"Ye  should  not  be  vaunting  yours,  but  should  woo  mine, — 

Ah  ha  ha  ha,  ha  ha  ha, — ye  should  woo  mine." 

— From  "Songs." 


-61 


I  do  defy  ye,  crabbed  age! 

I  've  seen  ye,  ne'er  did  feel  ye : 

Go,  for  another  turn  a  page; 

But  I,  a  flip  I  deal  ye. 

Where'er  I  go,  'tis  antic  youth  I  bring, 

No  matter  what  I  do,  'tis  then  I  sing — Hillo  and 

nonny, 

Hillo,  hillo,  and  tra  la  la, 

Hillo,  hillo,  my  bonny. 

I  've  seen  ye  catch  a-many  legs, 
I  can  not  e'en  deny  ye, 

And  make  them  worse  than  wooden  pegs ; 
My  nimble  limbs  belie  ye : 
Where'er  I  go,  'tis  prancing  feet  I  bring, 
And  what  I  skip  to  do,  'tis  so  I  sing— Hillo  and 
nonny, 

Hillo,  hillo,  and  tra  la  la, 

Hillo,  hillo,  my  bonny. 

I  've  see  ye  get  into  a  head, 
And  make  it  dull  or  cranky ; 
But  not  with  me  so  have  ye  sped, 
And  ye  may  try  and  thank  'e: 
Where'er  I  go,  'tis  tricksy  wits  I  bring, 
And  if  some  wit 's  to  do,  'tis  then  I  sing — Hillo 
and  nonny, 

Hillo,  hillo,  and  tra  la  la, 

Hillo,  hillo,  my  bonny. 


62— 


I  've  seen  ye  get  into  a  heart, 
And  make  it  sick  and  peevish; 
But  try  your  all,  ye  get  no  part 
In  mine,  ye  minion  thievish : 
For  wfiere  I  go,  a  hearty  heart  I  bring, 
If  there  be  joys  to  do,  'tis  I  can  sing — Hillo  and 
nonny, 

Hillo,  hillo,  and  tra  la  la, 

Hillo,  hillo,  my  bonny. 

My  love,  my  bonny,  tell  me  now, 
Didst  ever  know  us  aged, 
Or  count  what  years  upon  the  brow 
Had  made  us  cynic-saged? 
Where'er  we  go,  'tis  April's  self  we  bring, 
Give  this  or  that  to  do,  'tis  then  we  sing — Hillo 
and  nonny, 

Hillo,  hillo,  and  tra  la  la, 

Hillo,  hillo,  my  bonny. 

Come,  I  will  kiss  thee  here  and  here, 
Thou  sunny  side  of  twenty, 
And  tumble  up  our  youth,  my  dear, 
With  follies  wise  and  plenty: 
Where'er  I  go,  'tis  love  and  love  I  bring, — 
If   wooing   is   to   do,   'tis   I   can   sing — Hillo   and 
nonny, 

Hillo,  hillo,  and  tra  la  la, 

Hillo,  hillo,  my  bonny. 

— From  "Songs." 


—63 


MY  CHILD 

The  little  feet 

Came  flying  to  me  down  the  skies, 
Down  the  round  stairway  of  the  skies, 
The  dear,  dear  feet. 

With  what  surprise 
To  him,  to  me,  he  trod  the  air, 
The  steps  made  only  out  of  air, — 
What  sweet  surprise! 

And  O,  how  fair! 
With  what  a  tenderness  of  grace, 
What  tender  helplessness  of  grace, 
The  child  was  fair! 

He  stayed  a  space, 

And  filled  with  light  my  small-house  room, 

With  light  celestial  all  my  room, 

A  little  space. 

Then  a  dear  doom 

Bade  him  bethink  him  whence  he  came; 
So  bright  the  white  gates  whence  he  came 
'Twas  no  hard  doom. 


64— 


He  felt  a  flame 

Fill  all  the  sky  and  blind  the  sun — 
Beams  of  the  home  beyond  the  sun 
Around  him  flame. 

Now  hath  he  run 

Back  up  the  stairway  and  the  height, — 
So  late  ran  down  he  knew  the  height, 
How  up  to  run; 

But  left  his  light! 

O,  left  it  here  to  wane  no  more; 

And  from  my  house,  to  wane  no  more, 

Spreadeth  the  light — 

It  drowns  my  shore, 
The  sea  and  shore. 

— From  "Discoveries.' 


-65 


SONG'S  FREEDOM 

I  can  not  tell  with  what  a  joy  I  sing! 
But,  quotha,   Song  continueth  me  poor? 
Yea,  but  what  's  poverty  with  heart  a-spring? 

But,  quotha,  it  hath  pent  me  up  obscure — 
Men  pass  me  ?    Yea,  but  not  more  than  I  boast 
That  I  pass  too.    The  sun's  eye  is  my  cure. 

But,  quotha,  it  hath  drowned  me  on  lone  coast, 
Or  stabbed  me  to  a  phantom  in  a  crowd? 
Yea,  but  I  am  a  very  seeing  ghost. 

But,  quotha,  many  berate  me  long  and  loud, 

And  mar  my  music?    Yea,  poor  things!    Bad  ears — 

Clogged  with  a  vogue.     Some  hear.    They  keep  me  proud. 

But,   quotha, — Nay,   I   prythee,   drop  thy  drears: 
What  misseth  mark  it  is  not  well  to  fling, 
Nor  quarrel  with  what  gaily  perseveres: 

I  can  not  tell  thee  with  what  joy  I  sing. 


— From  "Discoveries. 


66— 


RAPTURES 

Methinks  all  natural  things  are  ecstacies : 
Or  if  forerun  of  pain,  yet  bliss  at  last, 
And  lavish  of  their  golden  treasuries. 

Hence  equal,  living  or  dying,  is  reason  cast 
Among  the  sweets  that  make  a  fate  a  choice, 
And  we  are  quiet,  how  so  things  go  fast. 

Attend !  With  what  a  sweetness  every  voice 
Singeth  the  swift  days  of  his  present  state, 
And  still  while  journey  speeds  doth  much  rejoice. 

Mere  breath  is  jocund  at  no  common  rate, 
And  life  's  true  sport, — the  sun-fish  love  to  leap ; 
And  insect  choirs  the  terse  night  elate. 

Hence  death,  meseems,  must  be  a  sport  more  deep, 
The  pearliest  plunge  reserved  for  the  ending, 
Whose  lights  their  glories  for  that  diver  keep. 

What  a  profuse  estate  may  wait  for  spending 

On  the  new  heir  its  heaping  treasuries, 

And   dying's  self  be  like  bright  billows  blending! 

For  still,  methinks,  Nature  is  ecstacies. 

—From  "Disco-vertesS 


-67 


SONG'S  PIETY 

If  I  could  tell  once  how  my  carols  pour, 
All  pour  like  silvery  rushing  torrents  in, 
And  in  will  rush  and  never  will  give  o'er — 

^  If  I  could  tell  this,  should  I  sing  the  better, 
Chant  more  harmoniously  by  a  letter, 
Ride  fancy's  rosy  wings  without  a  fetter? 

Give  o'er  this  inquest,  this  vain,  absent  lore, 
And  lore  that  is  impiety ;  let  din, 
Let  din  of  doubts,  make  room  for  God's  Sing  more. 

— From  "Discoveries.'1'' 


68— 


LOVE'S  ONE 

The  heavens  be  full  of  stars,  but  one  is  mine, 
Is  mine  because  I  am  too  leal,  too  small, 
Too  small  and  leal  to  note  the  hosts  that  shine. 

My  heart  is  like  a  little  pool  i'  the  grass ; 
The  heavens  of  stars  look  down  and  round  me  pass, 
But  I  hold  only  one  beam  of  the  mass. 

That  shine  the  many  round  me  I  divine, 
Divine,  but  I  reflect  but  thee  of  all, — 
Of  all  that  bring  their  company  to  thine. 

— From  "Discoveries'1 


-69 


CONJUGATION 

Prythee,  loved  lovely  lover,  echo  me. 
O  me!  I  will  intone  thee  so  sweet  song, 
Sweet  song  o'  heart,  constrained  thou  wilt  be. 

^Then  will  I  echo  thy  dear  echo,  love, 
Till  all  the  air  around  us  and  above 
Voice  as  the  mourning  of  a  mated  dove. 

Twill  be  that  to  dear  echoes  of  me  and  thee, 
And  thee  and  me,  love-unisons  belong, 
Belong  like  light  to  a  brook,  birds  to  a  tree. 

— From  "Discoveries,'''' 


70- 


SPRING. 

The  softened  mould   is  brown  and  warm, 

The  early   blossoms  break, 
And  loosened  streams  along  their  banks 

A  mossy  verdure  make. 

A   dewy  light  broods  o'er  the  earth, 

A  sweetness  new  and  rare, 
And  tumults  of  brook,  bird  and  breeze 

With  music  wake  the  air. 

Awake,  O  Heart,  awake  and  learn 

The  secret  of  the  Spring! 
From  winter-sleep  it  comes  like  light, 

Or  as  a  bird  on  wing. 

And  if  I  shall  be  winter-locked, 

As  sometimes  I  may  be ; 
If  bitter  storms  and  freezing  snows 

Come  whirling  down  on  me — 

Let  me  lie  patient,  like  the  earth, 

And  say,  "This  shall  be  rest ;" 
And  then,  O  Lord,  at  thy  dear  call, 

Arise  renewed  and  blest. 

—From  "Unity  Hymns  and  Chorals. 


—71 


CAMEO  XIX. 

What  's  fame,  sweet  verse?  Tis  only  this, 
That  others  know  with  what  a  bliss 
Thou  wardest  me,  and  what  a  kiss. 
But  if  thou  choose  a  secret  love, 
I  would  not  show  thee  for  the  world 
To  foreign  eyes,  but  keep  thee  pearled 
In  one  hid  gem  my  heart  above. 
Tis  so  I  love  thee  all  submiss; 
The  which  subdues  fell  care,  I  wis. 

—From  "Sonnets. 


72— 


CAMEO  XXIX. 

R.  &  R. 

A  lovely  summer  together,  girls! 
Tis  done ;  this  silken  flag  Time  furls — 
The  fire  o'  the  season  spent  tip-whirls. 
Now  one  hath   gone,   the   other   stays; 
And  what  shall  my  poor  old  fond  heart  do, 
Since  naught  is  whole  without  my  two! 
Ah  me !  the  sad,  the  sad  half-days ! 
The  song  o'  my  heart  like  a  brook  out-purls; 
But  where  are  your  rosy  feet,  my  girls? 

— From  "Sonnets." 


—73 


CAMEO  XV. 

I  do  defy  thee,  daily  Sun, 

In  braver  sky  thine  arc  to   run 

Or  in  more  quiet  west  be  done 

Than  in  my  heart.    What  though  a  grief 

Invade  me  fiercely?     So  cloth  spot 

Mix  with  thy  disk ;  it  matters  not. 

Who  sees  it  in  thy  mighty  sheaf 

Of  golden  darts  ?    I  will  be  one 

Whose  woe  's  light-lost  like  thine,  great  Sun. 

— From  "Sonnets. 


74— 


CAMEO   LI. 

When  flieth  forth  a  carrier  dove — 
Plumes  preened  close  as  velvet  glove — 
And  like  swift  skiff  doth  onward  shove 
His  air-wave  way,  he  minds  me,  dear, 
Of  thee  who,  far  by  space  apart, 
Dost  find  straight  air-way  to  my  heart, 
Nor  leav'st  me  lone,  nor  fail'st  me  near 
By  that  sweet  light  about,  above, — 
My  book's  last  word — thy  love. 


—From  "Sonnets." 


-75 


LOVE   AND   LAW. 

"He  healeth  the  broken  in  heart,  and  bindeth  up  their  -wounds.      He  telleth  the 
number  of  the  stars;  he  calleth  them  all  by  their  names."  Psalm  147:  3,  4. 

Hebrew,  who  taught  thee  side  by  side  to  set 

These  brave  thoughts?     For  by  thy  words, 

If  standing  on  the  earth  we  watch  the  sky, 

We  see  thee  to  a  constellation  toss 

This  heavy  world;  but  if  adown 

About  our  feet  we  look,,  heaven  falls  to  earth, 

And  such  bright  mercies  throng  the  way,  in  numbers 

Like    sea-shore    sands,    that   we    wade    deep    in    skies. 

One  Lord  the  same  Lord  is  who  healeth  me 

And  tells  the  numerous   stars !     Bethink  thee, — 

This  vast  of  peopled  space  of  burning  suns! 

If  with  the  pinions  of  terrific  wind, 

Potent  to  rend  strong  oaks,  to  tear  down  towers, 

Tossing  their  guns  like  playthings  in  the  air, 

And   twisting  huge    wrought-iron   beams   to    curls, 

If  with  this  wind  thou  shouldst  be  borne,  past  moon, 

Past  sun,  to  catch  a  star, — how  long 

Thy  dizzy  journey?    A  hundred  years? 

Yea,  a  hundred  hundred,  that 

By  a  thousand,  that  twice  told — yea,   more — 

Riding  on  the  back  of  a  hurricane,  to  catch 


76- 


The  nearest  camping  of  the  populous  heavens, 
Whose  watch-fires  kindle  in  the  plains  of  space. 
And  from  that  star  new  firmaments  of  stars 
Thou  wouldst  behold,  worlds  on  worlds, 
Rolling  on  thy  vision, — invisible  here, — 
Constellations   strange  of  shining  creatures 
Sketching  their  mythic  pictures  on  new  skies; 
Red  orbs   and   fiery   nebulae,   weird   planets 
Stranger  than   Saturn,  and  fierce,  hairy  comets. 
And  if  upon  that  star  thou  shouldst  outsingle 
The  faintest  gleam  of  light,  and  to  it  leap, 
Another  firmament  would  rise  before  thee, 
With   worlds   piled  to  the  zenith.      So   following, 
Forever,  and  forever,  and  forever, 
And  still  forever  multiplied  forever. 


No  orb  stands  by  itself,  or  sails  or  sings 

Alone;  each  hath  a  lovely  tune 

Which  it  goes  singing  for  itself,  itself, 

While  all  the  melodies,  agreeing,  sound 

In  one,  none  marred,  wrought  to  one  vast 

Of  harmony.     These  round  great  lights  a  thread 

Runs  through,  which  strings  them,  like  to  burning  gems, 

Into  a  chain  of  evening-lighting  stones 

Hung  round  the  neck  of  Righteousness :  one  thought, 

One   form,   one   Lord,   one   infinite   creation, 

Down  to  this  little  earth,  where  lovers'  lamps 

Are  naught  but  little  burning  suns  on  tables, 


—77 


And  a  tear,  spilled,  falls  in  a  little  sphere 

Through   space,    in   scrupulous   curve,   like   rolling  planet. 

There  is  no  great,  no  small,  nor  aught  appraise 

Can  we,  saying,  This  is  the  more  important, 

Or,  This  is  but  a  mean  and  trifling  part: 

For  all  is  great  in  the  Eternal  Purpose 

That  holds  it,  and  the  whole  is  naught  beside 

Eternal  Life.     What  is  this  earth 

Where  men  wage  wars  and  build  themselves  high  towers? 

What  are  the  planets  moving  concentric  in  curves 

With  earth,  and  what  the  stupendous  sun 

Tying   unto   itself   these   whirling   worlds? 

This  system  of  huge  worlds,  their  moons, 

The  monstrous  sun  binding  them  all  together, 

Are  but  as  fine  dust,  by  a  man's  hand 

Cast  to  the  sky.     The  mollusk  and  polyp, 

The  diatoms,  whose  thin  silicious  skins 

Subside  to  beds  of  white  and  shining  sand 

And  hosts  of  living  little  creatures  in  water, 

In  earth,  or  air, — these  are  the  dust's  dust. 

Yea,  on  this  imperious  rolling  ball, 

What  is  man's  body  but  a  grain  or  mote? 

And  yet  how  spins  the  earth  unhazarded, 

And  singing  on  its  way  serenely  roves 

Around  the  sun;  how  prompt  the  seasons  are, 

How  full  of  luscious  juices  and  sweet  waters! 

How  lordly  planets  make  their  grave  obeisance 

Unto  the  king,  revolve  and  glow,  not  hidden 


78- 


Even  by  the  sun's  prodigious  beam !    How  softly 

And  faithfully  the  moons  attend  their  worlds, 

Reflecting  the  sun's  smile  over  the  shoulder 

Of  night,   when  that  brown   nurse   bids   day  begone, 

And  frowns  upon  the  too  indulgent  light! 

How  man's  body  thrives,  and  little  insects, 

And  zoophytes  rooted  like  plants — how  all 

Flourish  and  swarm,  momentous  unto  the  Power 

That  throws  a  comet,  sets  a  sun  aflame, 

And  out  of  nebulae  expresses  wrorlds. 

Before  Almightiness,  the  whole  is  naught ; 

But  unto  All-lovingness  the  polyp's  hunger 

Cries,  and  the  beast's  pangs  in  his  barren  den. 

If  human  minds  look  out  into  the  darkness 

And  gather  rays  of  truth,  'tis  His  sight  sees; 

If  human  hearts  do  love,  'tis  His  love  loves ; 

'Tis  His  joy  joys,  when  joyful  hearts  rejoice; 

He  is  eye's  eye,  heart's  heart  and  being's  being. 

It  can  not  be  but  grief  and  pain  will  come : 

We  know  not  how  to  strive  and  never  fail ; 

We  know  not  how  to  have  and  not  to  lose ; 

There  is  no  way  to  love  and  not  to  fear ; 

There  is  no  way  to  love  and  not  to  feel 

The  pangs  of  parting  when  seas  roll  between, 

Or  when  in  vain  we  seek  a  faithless  love, 

Or  when — less  loss — the  sky-pits  yawn,  and  friends 

Fall  out  of  sight  into  their  bluejabyss. 

Then  the  One  Lord  takes  up  our  weary  woes 


—79 


As  he  takes  up  the  isles,  or  steers  a  star. 
So  wonderful  his  laws  that  he  hath  ways 
To  cope  with  our  great  pain. 

God  hath  two  temples — 
The  infinite  of  starry  heavens,  one, 
Where  shining  ranks  of  servants  throng  and  move 
In  unimaginable  multitudes 
At  his  command:  the  lowly  soul 
The  other,  where  he  hath  made  his  mercy-seat. 
One  Life  and  Love  he  is  through  all  that  vast, 
From  star  to  heart.     Swifter  than  light 
Or  thought  he  comes  from  some  great  sun  convulsed, 
To  hold  a  heart  that  it  break  not  too  far. 
He  weighs  it  in  his  hand  against  a  world; 
It  is  as  heavy  to  the  Lord  as  all 
His  suns  if  it  the  more  hath  need  of  healing. 
Praise!      Praise!     Thanksgiving!      Praise!     Amen! 

— From  "Poems" 


80 


WAIT  ON  THE  LORD. 

"  Watt  on  the  Lord!     Be  of  good  courage  and  he  shall  strengthen  thy  heart.     Watt, 
I  say,  on  the  Lord."  Psalm  27:  14. 

On    Psalmist's   word 

A  Rabbin's  voice  is  heard 

Commenting,   saying 

To  souls  praying, 

"Ora, 

Et  iterum  or  a; 

Veniet  hora 

Qua   tibi  dabitur." 

I  heard  a  Master's  speech 

The  same  faith  teach — 

A  Master  dear  to  heart, 

Standing   far  apart, 

So  great,  so  high  above, 

And  yet  with  lowly  men 

Living,  in  toil  and  pain, 

In  meekness  and  in  love. 

He  saith,  "Ask,  it  shall  be  given ; 

Seek,  ye  shall  find  in  heaven; 

Knock,  it  shall  opened  be." 

But  not  so  sweet  to  know 

The  Master's  lips  have  spoken  so, 


— 81 


As  my  soul  leaps  to  see 

He  speaketh  like  to  all  the  holy  men : 

And  softly  comes  again, 

Like  an  echo  in  my  ear, 

The  song  of  Hebrew  seer, 

"Ora, 

Et  iterum  or  a; 

Veniet  hora 

Qua  tibi  dabitur." 

O  when  the  soul  is  faint, 

When  visions  die, 

When  life  is  wrecked  upon  complaint, 

And  scattered  lie 

Hope's  arrows — years  long, 

With  purpose  strong, 

Kept  bound  within  one  sheaf — 

When  pain  and  loss  and  grief 

Prey  on  us, 

When  thought  and  doubt  and  love 

Weigh  on  us, 

Then  hear,  all  sounds  above, 

"Ora, 

Et  iterum  ora; 

Veniet  hora 

Qua  tibi  dabitur." 

— From  "Poems.' 


82— 


AMORIS  AVARITIA. 

I  heard  a  voice  moan  in  the  dark, 
A  smothered  voice,  as  if  a  heart 
Sorrowed  and  pleaded  from  the  ark 

Of  a  lone  breast. 
Then  carefully  I  drew  apart, 
And  listened,  when  I  had  come  near, 
To  catch  the  words,  if  I  might  hear 

What  so  distressed. 

Anon  the  sorrowful  low  moan 
My  sense  translated  to  a  tone, 
Wherein  the  sounds  took  shape  and  made 

Words  to  my  ear. 

And  thus  they  said:  "So  slight  my  need, 
So  very  little  I  do  need 
To  make  me  glad,  how  strange,  how  sad 

It  is  not  here!" 

With  pity  spake  I :     "Nay,  sad  heart, 
Sad  moaning  voice,  if  'tis  so  small 
A  thing  will  make  thee  glad  for  all, 

Now  tell  it  me. 

I  have  some  power,  perhaps  an  art 
To  compass  this  small  thing  that  will 
Endue  with  joy  and  blissful  fill 

Thy  path  for  thee." 


— 83 


Answered  the  mournful  voice  and  said, 
"Oh,  give  it  me,  this  one  small  shred 
Of  wealth  of  earth,  seas,  heaven  above — 

Tis  only  this : 

A  great  whole  love,  a  tender  love, 
Thought,  care  and  love  to  compass  me 
And  live  around  me.    This  would  be 

My  all  for  bliss." 

"All,  all !"  I  cried.  "I  thought  that  just 
Thou  didst  bemoan  thee  for  some  dust, 
Some  little  scattering  of  the  wind 

To  make  thy  ease! 
Ask  this,  beg  'wealth  of  Orm  and  Ind,' 
Beseech  the  treasures  over-decked 
In  all  the  vessels  ever  wrecked 

In  all  the  seas; 

"Ask  me  rocs'  eggs  to  wheel  thy  car, 
Or  eagle's  beak  to  bring  a  star, 
Or  griffin-guarded  books  that  wake 

Arabian  wiles; 

Ask  Hecla's  fire  or  Kashmir  snow, 
To  make  thee  ear-drops  that  shall  glow 
With  flame  around  clear  pearls,  and  shake 

Upon  thy  smiles; 

"A  mountain,  ocean,  iceberg  ask, 
And  all  the  furs  that  swim  or  bask; 


84— 


Call  mammoths  from  their  fossil  pales 

For  ivory  bone; 

Ask  birds  of  paradise,  and  scrolled 
Orchids  that  fly  like  birds,  and  gold, 
Bronze,   ruby,   green  ophidian   scales 

From  Amazon! 

"Why  these  are  dust,  not  hard  to  give, 
Little  to  ask.     If  thou  wilt  live 
But  long  enough,  around  thy  feet 

I'll  heap  these  things. 
But  love!  a  heart!  a  true  heart's  heat! 
Love  living  round  thee,  and  love's  lone 
Thoughts  ever  trembling  on  thine  own 

Like  sound  on  strings, — 

"Like  sound  on  strings,  where  each  to  each 

Belongs,  nor  e'er  dissever  may 

When  either  wakes! — 'tis  heaven!     Dost  know 

Thou   askest  heaven? 
Oh,  fall  upon  thy  knees;  beseech 
Forgiveness  for  thine  avarice.     Pray 
To  offer  up  thy  pain,  and  go 

Confessed  and  shriven." 

— From  '' 'Poems' 


—85 


IMMORTAL 

IF  awful  throes  should  shake  the  world 

Level,  and  on  me  Alps  were  hurled, 

I  should  not  be  crushed : 

If  heaven  crumbled  and  stars  fell  like  rain, 

Making  seas  mist  and  melting  the  rocky  plain, 

My  voice  would  not  be  hushed : 

If  the  inner  firmament,  which  makes  the  dome 

Of  the  human  head  an  infinite  sky,  Reason's  high 

home, 
Should    grow    opaque    with    nimbus-clouds     and 

horrid  storms 

Of  wild,  discordant  thoughts  and  insane  forms, 
Still  in  the  jarring  mind  some  light  would  linger, 

by  His  ways, 

Who  in  babes'  mouths  wakes  praise: 
But  if  my  love  were  gone,  if  I  felt  not  the  pang 
Of  tenderness,  nor  ever  in  me  rang 
The  peals  of  human  sorrow, — I  were  dead  where 

life  doth  start. 

Come,  Friend,  I'll  hold  thee  closer  to  my  heart! 
My  love  of  thee 
Is  life  in  me. 

—From  '"Poems" 


86— 


Dreams  are  the  glow  of  the  day's  embers.    The  flame 
Hath  all  forsaken  the  living  deeds,  and  lo! 
Their  shapes  that  now  lie  sembling  slumber,  glow 
In  the  still  witching  time  with  natural  aim. 
Voices  aloud  by  day  that  praise  or  blame 
Whisper  ghostly  by  night:  and  as  none  show 
Themselves  to  self  save  stript,  so  I  do  know 
Me  stript  in  dreams,  unbraced  by  fear  or  fame. 
Now  of  those  visions  let  my  soul  be  still, 
Still,  thankful,  and  fearful;  and  let  no  mind 
In  mire  that  wallows  look  for  phantoms  clean. 
For  I  can  call  me  angels  when  I  will, 
And  never  imps  by  night  to  me  inclined 
But  whom  by  day  my  soul  hath  sought  and  seen. 

—From  "Sonnets." 


—87 


If  I  be  poor,  what  of  't  ?    There  be  the  rich : 
If  I  be  lone,  fine  companies  do  sit: 
If  I  be  in  the  shade,  there  is  a  niche 
That  up  for  bards  and  sages  hath  been  lit. 
If  I  be  sad,  'tis  so ;  but  some  are  bliss'd : 
If  I  be  low,  some  foot  the  tops  above : 
If  I  be  loveless  still,  I  see  some  kiss'd 
And  warm  entwined  round  with  arms  of  love. 
If  I  be  penned,  I  stand ;  but  powers  outspread : 
What  I  have  small,  I  see  doth  more  abound: 
If  I  have  little  lore,  riseth  some  head 
Marveled  with  gift  that  doth  the  spheres  expound. 
When  'mong  these  thronging  things  I  sing  my  way, 
I  lose  me  in  them,  then  am  rich  as  they. 

—From  "Sonnets." 


88— 


Brother,  thee  I  beheld  entomb  thy  dead, 
And  weep  therewith.     Well,  tears  are  upland  springs; 
Let  flow ;  but  listen  to  them.     Over  bed 
Filled  from  the  hills  thy  sorrow  flows  and  sings. 
Did  ever  fall  the  rain  or  river  flow 
But  it  rolled  down  from  an  aerial  place? 
So  is  thy  love  an  altitude,  below 
From  whose  sublimity  tears  run  apace. 
Follow  thy  freshet  of  grief,  climb  up  its  course 
Far  to  thy  tops  of  love,  where  wilt  thou  be 
When  thou  shalt  sit  with  sorrow  at  its  source? 
On  heights  wilt  stand,  the  sky  engulfing  thee. 

So  tears  run  down,  love  up,  but  not  in  strife ; 

They  mean  one  heaven,  both  font  and  port  of  life. 

—From  "Sonnets." 


—89 


Sit  ye,  children:     I'll  tell  ye  a  fairy  tale: 
What?  because  ye  are  sprites  and  play  me  tricks 
Yourselves,  and  with  your  waggish  frolics  mix 
My  poor  old  pate  that  grows  totty  and  frail? 
Not  so!    The  Elfin  Chronicles  I  hail 
For  love  of  airy  Ariel,  antic  nix. 
On  such  blithe  fancies  I  my  soul  do  fix 
Against  the  nipping  o'  the  world's  chill  gale. 
Ah!  little  ones,  in  regions  wonderful 
Keep  ye  your  souls  enchanted,  from  the  din 
Where  common  clamors  and  mean  maxims  pass ; 
So  shall  ye  live  in  parleys  beautiful — 
Nay,  what?    The  tale?    Ah!  yes;  I  will  begin: 
"Once  on  a  time,  and  a  very  good  time  it  was" — 

— From  "Sonnets.1" 


90- 


"Where  be  your  gibes  now,"  thou  chalked  mock, 
And  thy  heart-sick  gags  ?    Art  gone  of  thine  own  staleness  ? 
And  all  the  melancholy  players,   over  whose   paleness 
Were  dabbed  the  lies  of  smiles  and  ruby  stock 
Of  health?    Yon  old  ring,  like  a  ghost,  doth  knock 
At  my  heart  strangely,  with  vehement  love,  and  the  frailness 
Of  our  mortal  state  stares  from  the  painted  haleness 
On  the  tan  where  dizzy  phantom-riders  flock. 
Have  ye  died,  worn  out?    Or  doth  poverty  pinch  ye? 
Or  have  ye  fallen  and  become  no  better 
Than  your  luxurious  betters  that  beheld  ye? 
Whate'er  you  do  or  be  or  suffer,  "inch  ye 
Along,"  dear  souls;  I  would  not  spend  a  letter 
But  to  love  ye  and  moan  the  strange  woes  that  compelled  ye. 

—From  "Sonnets." 

Note:    For  some  weeks  I  passed  often  by  a  field  where  was 
an  old  circus  ring. 


— 91 


The  furious  potter!     What  if  in  the  span 
Of  his  fantastic  fury  he  had  died 
Reviled  for  will  perverse,  before  the  pride 
Of  his  accomplishment  undid  the  ban? 
And  ah!  what  souls  have  lived  that  close  up  ran 
To  some  fine  verge — of  art,  letters,  or  tide 
Of  wealth,  or  love — full  potent,  and  just  this  side 
O'  the  vantage  stopped,  of  man  unknown — of  man 
For  them  who  persevere,  being  given  to  live, 
And  by  a  leap  surpass  the  difficult  bar, 
All  men  have  love,  and  flood  their  fame  abroad; 
But  who  to  them  that  drop  and  die  doth  give 
Love  and  reversion,  and  uplift  them  far? 
For  this  they  have  no  one  but  God.     But  God! 

—From  "Sonnets.'1'' 

Palissy. 


92— 


The  day  no  end  to  earth's  sweet  beauty  shows, 
But  night  no  bounds  of  worlds  where  beauty  springs: 
If  round  this  earth,  this  sun,  such  fairness  clings, 
What  beauteous  wealth  those  numerous  fires  compose. 
This  glory  and  grace,  that  doth  no  end  disclose, 
Cometh  of  endless  love;  to  Him  it  sings 
Who  "taketh  up  the  isles  as  little  things," 
In  Whom  the  sparrows  feed,  the  lily  blows. 
What  can  I  with  these  beauties  made  of  Love, 
These  boundless  glories?    What  but  cleave  to  sky, 
To  earth,  loving  Love's  creatures  joyfully! 
O  this  doth  lift  me  time  and  breath  above: 
Perforce  I  am  one  soul  with  what  I  cry 
In  love  unto, — of  one  eternity. 

—From  "Sonnets." 


—93 


What  matters  who  they  be  that  greatness  mold 
In  their  own  hands,  so  be  it  the  greatness  thrive? 
First  place  hath  this,  that  glorious  beauties  hive 
In  the  blest  earth;  second,  whose  fortunes  hold 
Fair  and  fine  things :  and  first,  that  worlds  enfold 
Amazing  loves,  that  do  from  Heavens  arrive 
Like  precious   freights ;  but  second,  who  contrive 
That  happy  they  shall  wear  the  cloth  of  gold. 
If  thou  of  thine  own  coffers  be  so  glad, 
Have  I  not  larger  wit  to  lend  me  joy, 
That  know  t'  exult  in  wealth  without  an  end 
Harbored  in  earth?     And  shall  I  not  be  clad 
In  natural  relish,  though  one  hard  by  employ 
More  of  some  stuffs  ?    Go  to !    Thou  'rt  churlish,  friend. 

— From  "Sonnets.' 


94— 


Round  me  the  waters  roar  in  raging  train: 
Far  as  eye  sees  they  push  like  wild  herds  past 
And  stream  their  manes,  the  boat  a  pannier  vast 
That  many  broad  and  vaulting  backs  sustain. 
Yet  them  I  ride  as  still  as  the  deep  plain 
On  which  they  prance,  because  the  watery  blast 
Uncalms  not  love,  that  moots  no  fear,  but  fast 
Holds  like  still  skies,  though  earth  may  heave  and  strain. 
Therefore,  ho !  for  ye,  steeds  and  spirits  wild ! 
On  with  ye !  rush,  and  let  your  breathing  blow, 
And  bear  me  with  you  at  your  furious  will. 
I  shall  sit  on  you  quiet  as  a  child ; 
And  ye,  like  storms  flung  against  heaven,  but  show 
Heights  out  of  reach,  and  heart  of  love  how  still. 

— From  "Sonnets." 


—95 


I  beseech  thee,  soul,  learn  to  know  the  heroic. 
Mistake  not :  'tis  not  flames  of  poetic  fire 
Scattering  sparks,  e'en  though  these  fly  up  higher 
Than  air  to  be  fixed  stars ;  nor  is  't  heroic 
To  dare  wounds — cowards  do  so;  nay,  nor  heroic 
To  be  adventurous,  unlawful,  to  tire 
The  world's  ear  with  fame  of  war,  desire, 
Art,  magnificence :  these  be  not  heroic. 
That  love  and  truth  are  strength  the  hero  believeth; 
Extremity  endureth,  yet  not  grieveth; 
And  what  his  lot  is,  as  from  God  receiveth. 
And  this  I  see — the  mighty  Lord  forsaketh 
Wit,  wealth  and  power — He  made  them;  but  He  taketh 
The  hero  in  ward  the  while  himself  he  maketh. 

—From  "Sonnets."1 


96- 


I  know  not  what  my  soul  hates  more  and  worse 
Than  the  pale  brows  of  whimpering  poets — they 
Who  not  e'en  love  but  must  go  "faint,"  "fall,"  say 
"We  sicken,"  "pine"  and  "die"  in  weeping  verse. 
O  fine-voiced  harmonies,  must  ye  rehearse 
These  feeble  folk,  who  swim  or  swamp  in  whey 
Like  meagre  curds,  more  thin  than  ghosts  by  day, 
Or  evening  scud  that  caps  of  wind  disperse? 
What!  must  sweet  words,  fine  vocables,  and  song, 
That  link  all  men  and  mark  mankind,  serve  them 
Who  suck  a  jaundice  from  th'  inveterate  green? 
Out  wi '  the  pack !     I  love  bards  firm  and  strong : 
My  soul  doth  void  the  pulers— broods  I'd  hem 
Like  bats  in  rosy  fogs,  nor  seeing  nor  seen. 

— From  "Sonnets." 


—97 


I  should  know  well  that  many  a  time  and  over 
I  trample  on  the  face  of  heavenly  dooms; 
Yet  this  I  know  not;  but  amid  the  glooms 
O'f  my  dull  folly  plod,  a  daftie  rover. 
I  huddle  precious  things  like  yokel  drover 
That  markets  lambs  through  lanes  of  flowery  plumes, 
Missing  the  modesties  where  lily  blooms, 
And  crests  of  perfumes  on  mead-seas  of  clover. 
'Tis  mournful  to  smell  flowers  with  swinish  snout, 
Sniffing  the  lovely  beings  for  provender, 
The  while  they  fling  their  fragrances  about : 
Divine  to  know  the  divine,  so  to  confer 
With  God  in  his  least  things  by  heart  devout, 
And  solemnize  each  heavenly  messenger. 

—From  "Sonnets.'1'' 


98- 


Dear  being,  my  love  's  alive  to  thee,  thou  lookest 
So  sorry.    In  all  my  life  I  never  met 
An  eye  more  humbly  wistful,  nor  brow  beset 
With  more  of  patient  pain.     Insult  thou  brookest 
In  plenty;  blows,  harsh  voices,  sneers  thou  tookest 
Yestreen,  nor  thinkest  other  things  to  get 
This  sunny  noon.     Thou  art  too  sore  to  fret, — 
As  thou  like  a  sad  nun  the  world  forsookest 
Heartbroken.     If  I  did  give  thee  but  a  nod, 
Thy  starving  heart  would  leap,  thou  'Idst  come,  and  think 
A  bone  riches,  chill  corners  luxury. 
'Tis  strange  and  sad  how  little  thou  ask'st  of  God, 
Or  of  the  world;  yet  wander  till  thou  sink, 
Thou  find'st  that  little  nowhere  left  for  thee. 

— From  "Sonnets." 

Note:     To  a  vagrant  dog. 


-99 


Why  give  I  not  the  nod  would  make  thee  leap 
And  thy  heart  throb,  eyes  glow  and  body  all 
Tremble  with  foreign  promise?     To  some  befall 
Such  fortune  as  on  thee  my  beck  would  heap. 
Poor  friend,  sad  distance  grade  by  grade  doth  creep 
'Twixt  us,  both  poor ;  eke  now  my  sole  lone  stall 
Shelters  a  stray  o'  thy  kind,  whom  I  did  call 
From  street  for  pity,  for  pity  and  love  do  keep. 
If  I  could  give  thee,  sad,  unspeaking  one, 
A  meed  of  rescue,  better  than  compassion, 
What  could  I  with  yon  next  awaiting  me? 
Turn  off  thine  eyes  from  me,  that  look  be  done, 
That  I  may  go.     I  shrive  me  in  this  fashion — 
Thou  canst  forget  me,  as  I  cannot  thee. 

— From  "Sonnets." 

Note:     See  foregoing  sonnet. 


100- 


To   what 's   changeable,   Death   is   colleague   loving   and 

warm: 

All  grow  but  in  degrees,  since  creatures  be 
Imperfect  and,  how  suave  soe'er  we  see 
The  pretty  things,  do  lack  their  righteous  norm. 
Death  is  no  fellow  of  perfectness.    The  storm 
May  ply  all  havoc,  destruction  be  set  free — 
What  change  needeth  the  finished  thing  to  flee 
Or  fear?    Death  hath  no  office  to  perform. 
Therefore,  kind  Death,  thou  art  the  superscript 
Of  the  incomplete,  on  their  foreheads  written, 
Like  water,  now  ice,  but  charactered  to  flow. 
Thou  signifiest  that  things  unfinished,  stript 
For  a  new  race  unto  perfectness,  fiery  smitten, 
Now  to  a  new  degree  do  onward  go. 

— From  "Sonnets."  • 


—101 


If  I  be  questioned  whether  't  be  the  day 
Doth  follow  night  around  the  flowery  world, 
Or  whether  night,  with  sandals  dewy  pearled, 
Pursue  the  morn,  that  wooed  will  not  delay, — 
I  answer  thus:     First  tell  me  which  makes  way, 
My  love  to  me,  or  I  to  her,  when  furled 
The  camping  light's  gold  streamers  be,  and  curled 
With  spiral  vapors  falleth  twilight  ray? 
If  'tis  my  part  to  woo  with  will,  hath  erst 
Her  beauty  not  pursued  me,  will  or  no, 
And  natural  the  more  as  'tis  not  willed? 
Like  day  and  night,  a  twain  without  a  first, 
True  lovers  know  not  either  follows  so, 
Or  either  leads — whom  both  one  love  hath  filled. 

—From  "Sonnets. 


102- 


'Tis  very  dark:  keep  close  to  me,  my  True, — 
For  love,  not  pity,  that  we  go  together 
Where  now  'tis  dark :  but  darkness  only  nether, 
Whence  "fiery  oes  engild"  the  sunless  blue. 
I  am  as  with  a  lamp  I  did  pursue 
Deep  forest  aisles  in  foul  and  pitchy  weather 
At  night,  eye  strained,  like  a  wild  thing  at  tether, 
To  pierce  the  glooms  that  do  the  path  imbrue. 
But  when  I  pause  afraid,  what  next  unknowing, 
Around  me  then  the  lantern  in  my  hand 
Like  to  a  little  sky  illumes  a  view: 
I  linger  central  in  the  circle  glowing, 
And  its  soft  fringes:  but  when  from  off  that  stand 
I  must  move  on,  keep  close  to  me,  my  True. 

—From  "Sonnets.'1'1 


-103 


O  love,  let  us  amass  large  memories 
Of   enterprises,    for   these   be   true    love's    wealth ; 
To  mix  in  brave  things  and  fine  pleasantries, 
Adventures,  thoughts,  great  works,  is  lovers'  health; 
Whereby,   when  Age   creeps   on  us   craftily, 
He  findeth  open  doors  and  no  forbiddance, 
But  he  may  feed  at  his  will,  so  happily 
Our  stores  keep  Age  and  us  with  Youth's  fair  riddance. 
What  though  with  age  sweet  vagabondage  cease, — 
We  can  not  dance  so,  climb  so,  as  we  did, 
Yet  love  's  life-wealthy  if  with  life  's  decrease 
Youth  leave  us   fortune  in  twain  memories  hid. 

Therefore,  dear  love,  pile  up  occasions,  spare  not; 

In   these   married   forever,   more   we   care   not. 

—From  "Sonnets." 


1O4- 


Listening  the  parlance  of  dewy  leaves  that  spill 
Their  syllables  at  morning  dripping  words 
To  one  another,  or  lulling  lapse  of  rill, 
Or  fall  and  filter  of  rain,  or  hidden  birds 
Of  night  with  their  soft  notes,  or  brooding  thrill 
Of   hush    'fore    dawn,   or   twilight   low   of   herds 
Homeward,    and   village    hum    becoming    still, 
Or  watery  hush  that  copse  of  willow  girds, — 
With  these  a  stillness  doth  my  spirit  hold 
Submiss  to  silence  hallowed  and  old; 
For  here  I  am  not  wont  to  speak,  nor  bold 
Unto  the  muteness  that  doth  all  enfold; 
But,  O  beloved,  'tis  then  I  am  most  near 
Fit  voice  of  love  for  thee  when  silent  here. 

— From  "Sonnets. 


-105 


"Put  out  the  light,  and  then  put  out  the  light!" 
He  takes  my  eyes  who  takes  the  sun  away: 
These  many  years  thou  art  my  golden  day, 
And  going  now  thou  blindest  all  my  sight. 
No  more  in  this  imperial  verse  I  write, 
And  am  too  newly  darkened  yet  to  stray 
To  other  song:  the  more  for  thee  I  pray, 
From  love's  lone  cell  enwalled  in  my  night. 
In  this  sweet  master-form  thou  wert  my  form, 
And  hast  enriched  my  every  measure  writ — 
Thou  wert  my  heart,  thought,  dream,  my  music  all. 
How  can  I  with  no  heart  a  verse  make  warm, 
Or  see   to   follow   dark  what  thy   love  lit? — 
Lest  I  do  fear,  halt,  grope,  go  ill  and  fall. 

— From  "Sonnets." 


106- 


MARCH  SONG. 

I  say,  bluff  March, 

You  're  not  so  rough  a  fellow 

As  you  look. 

Here  's  a  brook 

Will  show  the  sunny  yellow 

Of  heaven's  bright  arch, 

And  the  leaping  little  billows 

Laugh  at  pussies  on  the  willows, 

Very  soon,  very  soon, — 

I  say,  bluff  March! 

I  say,  bright  birds, 

Ye  prophesy  a  singing 

Wide  a-field, 

And  a  yield 

Of  verdure  that  is  springing 

To  feed  blithe  herds, 

When  your  wavy  shadow  passes 

Over  wavy-wavy  grasses, 

Very  soon,  very  soon, — 

I  say,  bright  birds! 

I  say,  brown  buds, 

Your  greening  and  your  swelling 


-107 


On  the  limb, 

Set  the  slim 

And  misty  twigs  a-telling 

Of  sweet  rich  floods 

Up  imbibing  roots  a-pouring, 

To  the  topmost  leaf  a-soaring, 

Very  soon,  very  soon, — 

I  say,  brown  buds ! 

I  say,  stout  heart,  f 
Go  out  into  the  weather, 
Things  of  blufTness, 
Things  of  roughness, — 
That  natheless  croon  together 
O'  the  earth's  new  start, 
Giving  noted  sign  and  reason 
Of  a  coming  gentle  season, 
Very  soon,  very  soon, — 
I  say,   stout  heart ! 

—From  "The  Months.'' 


JOS— 


NOVEMBER  SONG. 

The  bright  procession  of  the  blossoms  hath  passed  by ; 

The  gold  and  purple  rear 

Doth  vanishing  appear — 

Sparse  stragglers  from  th'  October  flanks 

Of  Summer's  army,  where  in  ranks 

They  sang  to  the  winds  as  never  carnivals  nor  symphonies 
outvie. 

Now  fields  are  yellow-hillocked  with  golden  fruits : 

The  mighty  succulent  gourd, 

With  rich,  ripe  round  matured, 

Shineth  twixt  many  a  saffron  shock 

Where  husks  are  soon  stripped  to  unfrock 
The  ear  whose  ruddy-orange  color  wi'  glow  o'  the  lordly 
pompion  suits. 

Then  comes  mid-month  the  lovely  Indian  Summer  new, 

Whose  melting  golden  haze 

Copies  the  fruity  blaze 

O'  the  field,  and  the  bland  airs  and  sky 

Retune  the  heart  wi'  old  singer's  cry: 
"  Hath  the  rain  a  father,  or  who  hath  begotten  the  drops 
of  dew?" 


— 1O9 


O  th'  bounty  and  the  beauty, 

The  grain  and  vine! 
The  harvest  is  ingathered, 

Corn,  oil  and  wine; 
And  it  hath  all  been  fathered 

With  love  divine! 
The  ice-wind  will  be  weathered, 

Where  hearth-fires  shine 
Upon  the  bounty  and  beauty, 

The  grain  and  vine! 

'Tis  a  short  and  speedy  way  from  field  to  house  and  home ; 

Crops  seem  to  skip  to  table 

As  in  a  fairy  fable, 

And  in  the  winking  of  an  eye 

The  flushing  pompion  in  a  pie 

Sets  many  a  heart  a-flame,  and  to  the  homestead  bringeth 
feet  that  roam. 


Eke  fruits  and  frosts  together  usher  us  indoors, 

And  fiery  hearths  foretell 

Still  ruddier  wintry  spell — 

Both  a  sounding  and  a  shining  note 

F  the  chimney's  hospitable  throat, 

That    crimsons    all   the   mirthful    company    wi'    its   bonny 
blazing  roars. 


110- 


Thus  back  November  looks  to  comfortable  sun, 

And  forward  with  desires 

To  frost-becharming  fires; 

And  passeth  cider  cups  about 

In  loving  harvest-merry  rout: 

And  aye  this  thrice-bedowered  season  singeth  thus  when  it 
is  done: 

O  th'  bounty  and  the  beauty, 

The  grain  and  vine! 
The  harvest  is  ingathered, 

Corn,  oil  and  wine; 
And  it  hath  all  been  fathered 

With  love  divine! 
The  ice-wind  will  be  weathered, 

Where  hearth-fires  shine 
Upon  the  bounty  and  beauty, 

The  grain  and  vine! 

—From  "The  Months." 


—Ill 


ODE  TO  SEPTEMBER. 

September,  warm  memory  of  March, 

When,  as  in  that  month  of  winter's  gruff  or  gusty  cheer 

In  its  last  lustiness,  and  for  the  second  time  i '  the  year, 

The  day  and  night  are  equal  round  the  sphere, 

And  from  the  same,  then  chill,  now  fiery  arch, 

The  rondure  of  th'  all-heavenly  arch, 

Blew  th  '  early  blasts  icy  and  bluff, 

Hearty,  athletic,  rampant,  rough, 

And  now  the  cloudy  famous  gales 

That  toss  the  hull  and  tear  the  sails 

Of  hapless  ship  again  that  rocks 

I'  the  arms  of  mighty  Equinox, 

And  yet  in  mists  like  wool 

The  sun  becalmed  burns  full. 
And  when  th'  mists  rise 
Into  the  skies, 
Then  doth  the  gray-green  verdure  parch — 

September,  I  love  thee  well! 

Thy  double  majesty  to  tell 

The  sun  descendeth  golden  hot 

On  flowery  mead  or  garden  spot, 

And  thy  great  tempests,   furious, 

Blazing,  glorious,  perilous, 


112- 


Fall  on  the  billowy  main 

Where  rolling  vessels  strain. 

Seas  go  up  and  seas  go  down, 

And  wild  September  gales, 

That  thresh  the  ships  like  flails, 

Take  no  thought  o'  men  that  drown; 
Yet  ho!  for  the  winds  o'  the  roaring  sea, 
That  shake  the  air  to  purity 

From  one  to  other  pole, 
The  while  beneath  them  roll 

The  billows  that  be  shaken  too 

To  keep  all  clean  creation's  brew! 

And  though  the  mighty  features 

Of  tempests  mind  not  creatures, 

Tis  man's  great  part — no  greater  other — 

To  Providence  his  coming  brother, 

And  learn  to  weather  the  fierce  storms, 

Building  ships  in  sturdier  forms; 
By  every  man  that  lieth  drowned  below, 
Another  on  the  waves  shall  safely  go. 
Meanwhile,  like  ripples  skimmed  from  a  Summer  sea 

And  painted  into  flowers, 
September  on  the  land 

Flingeth  her  sunny  hours 

With  warm,  prodigal  hand, 
Transmuting  windy  scud  to  bloom  o'  the  lea. 

Many  a  mead  shines  mellow 

With  harvest-ready  yellow, 

And  by  a  brook  or  nook  yet  stay 


—113 


Blossoms  lasting  e'en  from  May. 
Here  is  still  the  Pickerel  Weed, 
That  two  months  gone  began  its  seed ; 
The  woods  are  flecked  with  Yellow  Sorrel, 
Sabbatia,  Cress,  Herb  Robert,  Laurel; 
The  Spurry  Sandwort  by  the  way 
Rose-purple  at  our  feet  doth  lay 
In  little  stars;    Impatiens  yet 
O'erhangs  a  stream  or  places  wet; 
Vervain,  Swamp  Mallow,  Pale  Violet, 
The  Water-Lily,  Honeysuckle, 
Starwort,  Lobelia  Cardinal, 
The  Potentilla's  golden  eye, 
Polygala's  purple  nestling  by, 
The  Raspberry  bush,  the  Blackberry  vine, 
And  Phytolacca's  crimson  shine — 
These  fill  the  mead,  these  light  the  wood 
Where  eye  hath  looked  or  feet  have  stood 
With  love,  with  love,  with  love,  with  love, 
Knowing  that  from  above 
For  dear  creation's  gain 
Descend  the  flower  and  hurricane! 
September,  September,  September,  ho! 

Come  with  thy  flowers, 

And  battling  powers — 

Thy  merry  hours 
Emblossomed,  and  furious  gales  that  blow! 

—From  "The  Months." 


114— 


JANUARY  SONG. 

And  O,  if  I  shall  tell,  my  dear, 
If  I  shall  tell  the  time  o'  year, 
The  time  that  giveth  most  o'  cheer, 
And  most 's  our  own, 
And  most  by  love  is  known, 
What  shall  it  be? 


And  O,  shall  it  be  Spring,  my  dear, 
Shall  it  be  Spring  when  first  a-clear, 
When  first  it  shineth  far  and  near, 
And  far  doth  glow, 
And  far  the  zephyrs  blow — 
This  shall  it  be? 


And  O,  shall  it  be  June,  my  dear, 
Shall  it  be  June  when  roses  peer, 
When  roses  blooming  bright  are  here 
With  bright  gay  heads 
And  bright  and  various  reds — 
This  shall  it  be? 


—115 


And  O,  shall  it  be  Fall,  my  dear, 
Shall  it  be  Fall,  when  gold  the  spear, 
When  gold  and  brown  and  ripe  the  ear, 
And  ripe  the  fruits, 
That  ripened  Winter  suits — 
This    shall   it  be? 


Ah  no !    Not  one  nor  all,  my  dear, 
Not  one  nor  all,  but  wintry  cheer, 
The  wintry  primal  glad  New  Year, 
When  glad  the  heart 
Doth  glad  each  other's  part — 
This  shall  it  be. 


For  O,  th'  angelic  snow,  my  dear, 
Th'  angelic  snow,  and  ice  how  sheer, 
The  ice  that  tinkles  frosty  clear, 

And  frosty  fills 

With  frosted  light  the  sills 

O'  the  opening  year. 

And  O,  the  troops  of  nuns,  my  dear, 
The  troops  of  nuns  that  white  appear 
Where  white  the  picket  rows  up-rear, 
In  rows  where  snow 
The  rows  doth  now  o'er-blow, 
And  hood  them  here. 


And  O,  the  evergreens,  my  dear, 
The  evergreens  that  mock  and  fleer, 
That  mock  at  storms,  and  shine  in  gear 

Of  shining  ice, 

That  shining  in  a  trice 

Berobes  them  sheer. 

And  O,  the  bare-bough  trees,  my  dear, 
The  bare-bough  trees  that  are  not  drear, 
But  are  a  shape  of  grace  severe, 

Of  grace  that  sky 

More  graces  with  a  dry, 

Bright  emerald  clear. 

And  O,  the  yellow  flames,  my  dear, 
The  yellow  flames  on  hearth  that  veer, 
On  hearth  domestic  where  is  cheer, 
And  where  a  kiss 
And  where  all  human  bliss 
Hath  naught  to  fear. 

Then  O,  how  festal  fair,  my  dear, 
How  festal  fair  this  time  o'  year, 
This  time  when  hearts  o'  love  sincere 

New  love  employ, 

With  love  say,   Here  be   joy, — 

"Happy  New  Year!" 

—From  "The  Months." 


—117 


SONNET. 

Full  often  have  I  seen  a  glorious  robe 
Apparel  the  earth  with  perfect  endless  white, 
Making  each  bush  a  velvet  stud  or  lobe, 
Wi'  the  same  stuff  covered  as  the  raiment  bright. 
Methought  th'  immaculate  splendor  were  enough; 
But  when  the  hours  opened  the  ward  o'  the  west, 
There  hung  th'  horizon  of  soft  green  and  buff, 
A  spangled  girdle  for  the  snowy  vest. 
O,  heart  o'  me,  how  hath  the  dear  bard  spoken 
O'  "the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land  ?" 
Here  's  the  white-shining  seamless  robe  unbroken, 
Which  God  hath  hasped  with  yon  gold  emerald  band. 
If  there  be  light  more  precious  than  here  seen, 
'Tis  better  light  than  Love  is,  as  I  ween. 

—From  "The  Months." 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

Behold  how  fall  at  Christmastide 

Divers  things  together : 
The  heart  is  warm  to  love  and  pray, 
Though  'tis  wintry  weather. 

Lo,  the  earth  's  a-cold, 

Winds  be  rough  and  bold, 

When  this  story  's  told — 

Hearts  nor  chill  nor  old! 

O,  up  with  the  ivy,  the  ivy  and  holly,  the  holly  and  bay, 
And  lovingly,  joyously,  merrily  sing,  'tis  Christmas  dayl 

Behold  the  persons  of  the  poor 

Round  the  little  stranger, 
The  while  the  rich  bring  spice  and  myrrh 
To  the  lowly  manger. 

Poor  and  rich  are  one, 
Strife  is  hushed  and  done, 
Peace  on  earth  begun, 
Naught  to  hate  or  shun! 

O,  up  with  the  ivy,  the  ivy  and  holly,  the  holly  and  bay, 
And  joyfully,  mirthfully,  gratefully  sing,  'tis  Christmas  day ! 

And  lo,  the  wise  together  come 

With  the  rough  and  wild, 
The  magi  with  the  silly  swains 

Kneel  before  the  child. 


—119 


.      Tis  not  wit  or  art, 
Nor  the  dull  or  smart, 
But  the  child-like  heart 
Finds  the  heavenly  part! 

O,  up  with  the  ivy,  the  ivy  and  holly,  the  holly  and  bay, 
And  heartfully,   faithfully,  praisefully  sing,   'tis   Christmas 
day! 

Now  happy  light  and  happy  dark 

Mingle  over  them; 

At  night  's  the  birth,  but  shines  the  bright 
Star  of  Bethlehem. 

Ever  hold  thy  station 
In  us,  bright  creation, 
Star  of  Revelation, 
Star  of  sweet  Salvation ! 

O,  up  with  the  ivy,  the  ivy  and  holly,  the  holly  and  bay, 
And  happily,  blissfully,  fervently  sing,  'tis  Christmas  day. 

And  see,  together  come  the  earth 

And  the  heavens  lighted, 
The  angels  and  their  heavenly  beams 
Flood  the  plains  benighted. 

Joy,  that  high  and  low 

Seek  the  Christ-child  so! 

Earth  and  heaven  go, 

All  the  loving  know ! 

O,  up  with  the  ivy,  the  ivy  and  holly,  the  holly  and  bay, 
Forever  and  ever  and  ever  to  sing,  'tis  Christmas  day! 

—From  "The  Months." 


120— 


EASTER  SONGS. 

I. 

Every  year  the  Spring, 

Every  year  the  Fall: 
First  the  Spring  when  earth  doth  sing, 
Then  the  Fall  when  passeth  all — 

Every,  every  year. 

Every  day  the  morn, 

Every  day  the  night: 
First  the  morn  when   light  is  born, 
Then  the  night  when  fadeth  sight — 

Every,  every  day. 

Every  soul  hath  breath, 

Every  soul  hath  death : 
First  the  breath  that  pleasureth, 
Then  the  death  that  gathereth — 

Every,  every  soul. 

Every  life  hath  love, 

Every  life  hath  loss : 
First  the  love  that  looks  above, 
Then  the  loss  that  sweeps  across 

Every,  every  life. 


—121 


God  's  in  Spring  and  Fall, 
God  's  in  morn  and  night — 
Spring  and  Fall  that  come  to  all, 
Morn  and  night  the  double-bright, — 
Always,  always  God. 

God  's  in  death  and  breath, 

God  Js  in  loss  and  love : 
Death  or  breath  him  witnesseth, 
Loss  and  love  both  point  above — 

Always,   always    God. 

God  's  the  all  of  all, 

I  'm  his  and  he  's  mine : 
If   all,   what   recks   what   may  befall? 
If  mine,  all 's  love  and  light  divine : — 

Always,  always  God. 

Every  love  he  loves, 

And  he  makes  it  life — 
Life  with  never  end   nor   stint, 
Life  that  hath  th'  immortal  in  't, — 

Every,  every  love. 

Every  year  the  Spring! 

Every  day  the  light! 
Comes  the  Spring  new  life  to  bring, 
Comes  the  light  of  Easter-sight, — 

Every,  every  year! 

Every,  every  day! 


122— 


II. 

"Where  are  they?" 

Why,  here: 

Where  should  they  be,  I  pray, 
My  own  beloved?    Away? 
Forever  and  a  day 

Heart-near 

They  walk  with  me  and  stay. 
"Where  are  they,"  indeed! 

"But  vanished?" 

O,  yea, 

Just  from  the  sight  of  eves. 
"Tearrblinded?"  Well,  surprise 
Caught  me  sorrow-wise: 

But  nay, 

Opake  are  not  the  skies. 
"But  vanished,"  indeed! 

"But  silent?" 

Why,  yes, 

Just  to  the  sense  of  ears, 
Or  when  beclogged  with  fears 
I  have  no  soul  that  hears 

Express : 

Heaven  to  their  voices  clears. 
"But  silent,"  indeed ! 


-123 


"Where  are  they?     But  vanished? 
But  silent?"    What  queries! 

Well,  well- 
Hast  thou  naught  better  to  do, 
Or  hast  thou  nothing  in  view, 
Or  is  naught  given  to  you 

To  tell? 

Or  hath  love  nothing  new? 
What  queries,  indeed ! 


III. 

How  simple  on  its  stem  a  flower 
Doth  bloom  above  the  dew, 

Looking  to  heaven  every  hour 
With  native  eyes  of  blue, 

Native  unto  the  skies'  own  hue! 

How  simply  do  the  creatures  plan 
Who  spin  themselves  a  grave, 

And  hide  therein  a  little  span, 

Then  flutter  forth  full  brave, — 

Flutter,  and  gilded  pinions  wave. 

How  simple  'tis  a  man  to  be, 

To  live,  to  love,  to  think, 
Who  looks   forth  from  his  eyes  to   see, 

And  standeth  on  the  brink, 
Standeth  whence  soul  soars,  ne'er  to  sink! 


124- 


O,  life  is  thrice  simplicity, 

Plain  as  the  blooming  things, 
As  spinning  cocoon-creatures  be, 

And  simple  as  new  wings, 
Simple  as  soul  that  prays  and  sings : 

O,  life  is  simple  fellowship 

With  thing,  and  man,  and  beast, 

And  death  is  naught,  that  cannot  nip 
What  shineth,  large  or  least — • 

Shineth  with  one  light,  west  or  east: 

O,  life  is  earth-wide  fellowship, 
And  death  has  naught  to  say; 

Saith  naught  but  it  to  life  doth  slip 
As  roundeth  night  to  day 

Around  the  rounded  world  alway. 

Wherefore,  awake  me,  orient  life, 

Or  lull  me,  Occident; 
With  east  or  west  I  have  no  strife, 

But  follow  with  one  bent, 
Follow  with  Easter  merriment. 

IV. 

O1  blessed  Voice  of  Love  and  Faith, 
That  life  immortal  witnesseth, 
And  to  the  waiting  spirit  saith, 
"In  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions!" 


—125 


Now  Spring  doth  sing  and  waters  leap ; 
Earth's  times  a  deathless  vigil  keep, 
And   life   returns    from   hidings   deep: 
"In  the  Father's  house  are  many  mansions!" 

My  soul,  let  earth  one  mansion  be; 
The  heavens  then  hear  that  call  to  thee, 
With  all  the  stars  in  company, 
"In  the  Father's  house  are  many  mansions!" 

And  mansions  more  for  aye  have  been 
Beyond  this  round  of  stars  serene, 
Eternal  built  in  heavens  unseen: 
"In  the  Father's  house  are  many  mansions!" 

Dear  Master,  Voice  of  Love  and  Faith, 
Thy  word  doth  live,  and  in  me  saith — 
And  all  my  spirit  answereth — 
"In  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions!" 

O  blest  and  dear  is  mortal  breath, 
And  blest  is  life  and  love, — and  death, 
Because  the  soul  within  me  saith, 
"In  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions!" 

—From  "The  Months.'1'1 


126— 


AFTERWORD. 

There  's  a  chill  in  the  air.  a  chill  and  a  chill, 
And  my  heart,  my  heart  I  can  not  hold  still, 
But  it  shivers  aloof,  and  cower  it  will, 
In  the  misty  morning  gray. 

From  my  heart,  my  heart,  I  turn  not  away, 
E'en  though  with  its  darkness  it  darken  the  day, 
But  I  question,  and  hearken  the  things  it  will  say, 
And  it  tells  me  the  simple  truth: 

I  am  weary,  it  saith,  and  I  miss  my  youth, 
And  eke  in  the  world  I  find  little  ruth; 
I  am  weary  and  wish  to  die,  good  sooth, 
If  God  will  set  the  time. 

But  my  heart,  my  heart,  I  say,  'tis  the  prime 
Of  honor  to  bide  in  the  ranks,  'tis  a  crime 
To  run  from  thy  post  in  dew  or  in  rime, 
Till  thou  be  mustered  out; 

And  what  'tis  a  wrong  to  set  thee  about 
'Tis  a  wrong  to  wish,  and  undevout : 
Who  wishes  to  run  is  himself  a  rout, 
Though  an  army  hold  him  in. 


—127 


I  spake,  and  my  whole  heart  knew  its  sin, 
And  lifted  its  brow,  and  breathed  deep  in, 
And  cried,  There  is  something  to  do  and  win, 
Wherever,  whenever  the  same. 

If  a  thousand  years  betide  my  name, 
Or  only  this  breath,  or  failure  or  fame, 
One  thing  is  true  glory  and  one  is  true  shame, 
Howbeit  I  live  or  die: 

The  part  that  is  low,  or  the  part  that  is  high, 
Is  to  run  from  the  thing  that  I  ought  to  stand  by, 
Or  to  face  either  heaven  or  hell  and  defy 
Them  to  draw  me  or  drive  or  abate. 

For  God  's  in  the  little  and  eke  in  the  great, 
Nay,  naught  is  a  big  or  a  little  estate; 
Who  faceth  th'  Eterne  is  nor  early  nor  late; — 
To  hasten,  or  faint,  'tis  one  ill. 

Is  there  chill  in  the  air,  a  chill  and  a  chill, 
And  my  heart,  my  heart  I  can  not  hold  still? 
But  mighty  it  shall  be,  and  glory  it  will 
I'  some  noon,  and  go  its  way ! 

0  God,  my  God !    I  thank  thee !    I  pray ! 

1  bless  thee  that  noon  of  the  night  or  the  day 
Is  thy  noon  still — I  can  not  away! 

Here  's  home,  my  home !    I  stay  ! 

—From  "The  Months." 


128- 


f 


P5 


25- 


' 


